Twisted

by Cynthia Eden

  “I think I want you . . . too much.”

  Her heart slammed into her chest. Jazz music was still playing down below. A soft, sultry tune. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d just let go with a lover. Just taken the pleasure and forgotten everything else. She wanted that fierce release.

  Soon enough, with him, she’d have it.

  “Because I’m dangerous when I’m out of control.”

  She didn’t believe that nonsense. “I don’t think you could be dangerous to me.” So she leaned closer to him, pressing up on her tiptoes. His mouth was seriously sexy. “You’re the good guy, remember?”

  “Says who?”

  But he didn’t kiss her. She thought for sure that he would, but Dean backed away from her. Then he just watched her with that dark stare.

  Her arms felt chilled. Ridiculous, of course, considering how hot it was.

  “That was your last chance.” His voice was flat. “I won’t let you go again. Not if you stare at me that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Like you want me to fuck you.”

  Well, she had. What was the point in denying it? “Oh, Dean . . .” His name was a sigh from her as she walked around him. “You’re the one who was looking at me as if you couldn’t wait to eat me alive.” She headed back into her apartment.

  “Oh, baby . . . if you only knew . . .”

  His words made her glance back. There was no missing the sensual promise in his eyes.

  “I won’t back away again,” he said.

  Her chin lifted, and she hurried across the room. She didn’t waste time trying to clean things up then. Later, later she’d save what she could. When she was feeling strong enough to take on her broken home. But she quickly changed her clothes. Ditched her skirt and top. Put on the jeans she’d purchased earlier. Her new T-shirt. Her tennis shoes. She needed to be comfortable.

  And I may need to run.

  When you hunted in New Orleans, a girl never knew what she’d find.

  LISA NYLE’S FINGERS closed around the deck of tarot cards. It was time to shut down for the night. The square always closed before sunset, the better for the city to keep out the large homeless population. Or, at least, that was the plan, anyway.

  The others around Lisa had already packed up. But she’d lingered, wanting to stay. She’d raked in so much cash that day. An amazing day. She owed Emma for this one.

  But it was time to leave. Her boyfriend had a gig in a few hours, and there was no way she’d miss his set. Her gaze drifted toward the St. Louis Cathedral. It was so freaking amazing. This city was great. She was going to bring in so much money, and she and Nate could get married by Christmas, and—

  “You’re not her.”

  She jumped because she hadn’t heard the guy approach. A big guy, tall, with a wild tangle of dark hair.

  “Thought you were her, all alone out here.”

  Lisa wasn’t alone, though. There were plenty of tourists close by. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. Maybe the guy was acting a little weird, but he was still a customer, and she could fit him in before she had to close things down for the night.

  “Your eyes are wrong. Not blue.”

  Her smile stretched a little. “You’re looking for my friend, Emma.” She shuffled the tarot cards. “I’ve taken over for her.”

  His gaze fell to the cards.

  “Have a seat.” She motioned to the chair in front of her little table. “I can do a reading for you.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “And I’ll even do it at a lower rate than Emma offered.”

  Emma didn’t use the cards. As far as Lisa knew, Emma didn’t use anything. She just talked to people. Or, she had. But Emma had gotten out of the business.

  Her loss.

  He sat down.

  Lisa pointed to the sign. “Fifteen dollars.”

  He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a crumpled twenty. Tossed it to her.

  Lisa put the cards in front of him. “Shuffle the deck.”

  His hands curled around the cards. His nails were dark. Red? Maybe he was a painter . . . she’d have to mention that when she started looking at the cards.

  He shuffled the deck.

  “Excellent.” His hands were strong. He looked strong. Sure, his clothes were old, torn a bit, but the guy was in great health. And he was good-looking. Once you got past his glare and the dirt he seemed to wear like a second skin.

  And the hair—it was bad. His hair seriously needed a cut. And he needed to shave the stubble on his jaw.

  “Cut the deck. At any point you want.” She paused. “But as you cut, think of the question that brought you out here tonight. Focus on it.”

  The man’s gaze held hers as he cut the deck.

  “G-good.” Okay, his stare was just creepy.

  Since she was pressed for time, and the guy was giving her a serious creep-out, she decided to go straight for the three card spread. “Take three cards from your cut deck. Lay them out here . . .” Her fingers feathered over her table. “Those cards will represent your past, your present, and your future.” This spiel was standard.

  Still looking straight at her, he took out three cards. He positioned them in front of her, but their faces were flat against the table.

  Fine. Lisa licked her lips. “Pick one of the cards to turn over first. Pick the card that you can feel calling to you—”

  He turned over the middle card. Death.

  Her breath eased out. The Death card didn’t mean the guy in front of her was dying. “This is a transformation card,” she said quickly, hoping to reassure him because she didn’t want the guy to panic on her. “It shows that change is coming to your life.”

  And he . . . laughed.

  His laughter caught Lisa off guard. “Sir?”

  He’d fallen forward, and his hand had slid inside his coat. A coat in September—how did that make sense?

  “I’m changing . . .” He said, his words so low that she found herself leaning forward to hear him.

  “You’re—”

  His hand flew up. A hand that held a knife.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but he shoved the knife into her chest. There was no breath to scream then. Lisa could barely even gasp as she stared into his eyes.

  “People are all around . . .” His voice was a low rasp. “And they’re not even looking at you.”

  She wanted to scream. Wanted to so badly. Her mouth opened.

  His hand pressed over her lips.

  “Now they can’t even see you if they did look.” Because he surrounded her. Too big, too strong. “I’m going to stay just like this for a little while.” And, she could have sworn that she actually felt him press a kiss to her temple. “Then I’ll let you go. Poor lost soul . . . you weren’t my prey tonight.”

  You’re not her.

  He’d said that when he first sat down.

  Behind his hand, Lisa tried to whimper.

  “People all around, and not one will help you. That’s a lesson . . . you can’t trust anyone. No fucking one. You think you can count on a friend, but you can’t. In this world, it’s just you. You come in alone. You go out the same way.”

  The shadows were lengthening. Her chest burned.

  “I wanted to send a message with the death tonight . . . so I suppose you’ll have to do.”

  She didn’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die. I don’t!

  “I don’t kill like this. Or, at least . . .” And his hand lifted. He wiped away the tears that were leaking from her eyes. She should scream.

  But she could barely manage to breathe. The pain was so intense. Consuming.

  “At least, I haven’t. But I’m learning lots of new things about myself. Things I never expected.” He gave a low hum. “There’s power in death. So much.” Then, as if musing, he said, “You didn’t even get to beg.”

  No, no, she hadn’t.

  “If I leave t
he knife in, you’ll live longer.” He whispered those words into her ear. “But if I take it out, you’ll be gone in moments . . . all that blood will come rushing right out of you.”

  He started to withdraw the knife. She could feel the slow slide, and her hand lifted, it curled around his wrist, and she fought to keep his hand still. “Pl . . . please . . .”

  “Ah, so I did get to hear you beg.” He stopped pulling on the knife. “Live then, for a little longer. Maybe your friend Emma will come along, and she’ll see what it’s like . . . because she’s next. Emma won’t get away. I won’t let her get away.”

  And then he was pushing her back, even deeper into her chair. He took off his coat. Covered her up so that no one could even see the knife in her chest. Her eyes were on him. Always, on him.

  He bent and pressed a kiss to her lips. “You’ve been fun, fortune-teller. And, hey, I guess that death card was right after all.”

  Then he was backing away. Whistling.

  “Pl . . . ease . . .” Lisa managed again. She was trying to call out to those around her. Those who were so close. Close enough to help her. But she didn’t move because she was afraid to move. Afraid to dislodge the knife in her chest. “Pl . . . ease!”

  But no one looked at her. If anything, people hurried away.

  Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs. In and out . . .

  “Please . . . help . . .”

  EMMA HURRIED ALONG the broken sidewalk. The sidewalks in New Orleans were always their own obstacle courses. Her sneakered feet jumped easily along the cracks.

  “Want to tell me where the hell we’re going?”

  “We’re catching the trolley.” Because she sure didn’t want to take his fancy rental car to their destination. The thing would get stolen in seconds. “We’ll cut through the square and head toward a station.”

  He snagged her wrist. “And after the trolley?”

  She glanced back at him. They were just wasting time. “Look, sources are important in your business, aren’t they? I mean, the FBI has to use tons—”

  “I’m not an FBI agent any longer.”

  No, he wasn’t. She got that. “But you’re a LOST agent, and I’m betting you know just how important it is to get certain people to talk.” She gave a nod. “Julia was surviving somehow in this city, and we’re going to the people she might have . . . worked with.”

  The streetlight over them was broken, and in the growing darkness, it was hard for her to see his expression. “Sure seems like you have some interesting connections,” he murmured.

  “That’s why I’m your partner on this one,” she said. “You can thank me later.”

  Then she hurried forward, but he was right with her. Keeping hold of her wrist, and Emma found that she didn’t mind his touch. Oddly, it was reassuring. Darkness was creeping over the city, and soon the faint streaks of light would be gone. She hurried toward the square, her gaze automatically sweeping toward her old booth—

  It was still there. Lisa was still there. Slumped back beneath her umbrella. Some sort of cover or coat over her.

  Emma froze. “Wrong.”

  Dean’s fingers tightened around her wrist. “What?”

  But she yanked away from him and ran toward her friend. “Lisa!”

  And as she drew closer, Emma could see that Lisa’s mouth was moving. She was whispering, “Pl . . . ease . . . please . . .”

  “Lisa?” She reached for her because Lisa didn’t seem to see Emma. Lisa shouldn’t be there. She knew the rules. The square closed at seven. If she didn’t get out, Lisa wouldn’t be able to come back. The cops would make sure of it—

  Emma knocked the coat off Lisa. A dark coat, black. A man’s. Torn in places . . .

  Familiar.

  But she lost the thought as soon as she had it. Emma lost it because she could see the knife in her friend’s chest.

  “Pl . . . please . . .” Lisa whispered.

  Emma’s hand lifted.

  “No!” Dean shoved Emma back. “Leave it the fuck in!” He yanked out his phone. Emma heard him demanding an ambulance, telling the person on the other end of the line that they had a stabbing victim, to get to Jackson Square right away.

  “Lisa?” Emma said her friend’s name softly. Lisa’s eyes had closed, and her head had sagged forward. Carefully, Emma curled her fingers under Lisa’s chin. “Lisa, just keep hanging on, okay?”

  A crowd had gathered around them now, people had finally noticed that Lisa had been attacked.

  Lisa slumped forward, sliding right out of her chair—

  Dean grabbed her. “The ambulance is coming. You need to stay with me, understand?”

  Emma didn’t think that Lisa was understanding anything right then.

  He arranged her carefully, making sure that the knife wasn’t moved. The knife was in Lisa’s chest. There was so much blood on Lisa’s clothing.

  How is she still alive?

  “Who did this to you?” Dean asked Lisa.

  Emma peered down at her friend. The only wound was to Lisa’s chest. There were no scratches on her arms. No slices on her hands. Emma clenched her own hands into fists, remembering how she’d fought when a knife came at her so long ago.

  Lisa didn’t have the chance to fight back. So he was close to her. Very, very close.

  Her gaze slid over the ground even as an ambulance’s siren wailed.

  Cops were there, too, coming fast from the nearby precinct, running up to the scene and pushing Dean and Emma back as they tried to help Lisa.

  Emma’s shoe slid over a tarot card that had fallen to the ground. Death.

  And she knew how the attacker had gotten close to Lisa. There was blood on that card.

  He came to her for a reading. They were close, bending together under the umbrella. It would have been so easy for him to lean forward and attack.

  But—why? Had it been a robbery? Everyone knew that the folks in the square were usually paid in cash. The best time for a robbery would be the end of the day.

  EMTs rushed by Emma. They carefully loaded Lisa onto a stretcher. When they lifted her, Emma saw her friend’s purse—it was open and Lisa’s wallet was right there. Emma could see money hanging out of the wallet.

  “What the hell happened here?” That was Beau’s voice, and she turned to see the uniformed cop staring at her with worry in his eyes. “When I heard what had gone down—I thought it was you, Ms. Castille.”

  But it hadn’t been. Because Lisa had taken over her space. Lisa . . . who looked so much like Emma.

  Emma hurried to her friend’s side, trying to reach her before the EMTs loaded Lisa into the ambulance. “Who did this?” Emma asked her. It was the same question Dean had tried to get answered. The one that mattered most.

  Lisa’s head moved, just a bit. It looked as if she were trying to whisper something.

  “Lisa?”

  Beau wrapped his arms around Emma. “You have to let them help her. Step back, Ms. Castille. Step—”

  Lisa’s lips moved. Emma couldn’t hear her words. She wasn’t even sure that Lisa spoke at all. But the movement of her friend’s lips . . . it sure looked as if Lisa were saying . . .

  You’re next.

  The ambulance doors slammed shut, and the vehicle raced away.

  DEAN HAD NEVER liked hospitals. All too often, he’d just come to them when it was time to see the bodies—the broken bodies that had been left by killers.

  Hospitals weren’t a place of hope for him, and, as he watched Emma frantically pace back and forth across the small waiting room, he wondered if the place held much hope for her.

  They’d talked to the cops. Spent far too long with the two detectives who’d come down to get their statements. From those cops, Dean had learned that no one at the square remembered seeing the attack on Lisa Nyle. No one had apparently even realized she was hurt, not until Emma came along.

  The detectives were at the hospital, talking to the nurses, trying to find out what chance of survival Lisa
Nyle had.

  Emma stopped pacing. She turned and looked at Dean. “It was him.”

  He took a cautious step toward her. Emma had looked so damn breakable ever since she’d found her friend at the square. He’d called Wade and Sarah, gotten them to continue the search for Julia while he took Emma to the hospital—

  “Did you hear me?” Emma charged toward him. Her cheeks were stained with red. “It was him!”

  “Emma—”

  “You’re next. That’s what she told me. What she tried to tell me.”

  He hadn’t heard Lisa say anything.

  “He told her that—he went after her. Hell, maybe he did it because he thought she was me. It was just like Beau said . . . at first, he thought it was me, too.”

  Her pain was palpable. Dean wanted to pull her into his arms and just hold her, and, hell, he’d never been the comforting type.

  “He was right in front of us,” Emma continued, her voice thickening with fury, “and I didn’t see it. I think I’m so damn good at reading people—and I didn’t see it!”

  Now he was confused. “You saw the killer?”

  “We both did.” But she shouldered around him and marched toward the detectives. When they didn’t turn toward her but kept talking with the nurse, Emma grabbed the arm of the cop nearest her. She swung him around to face her. “There was a coat at the scene. It was covering Lisa.”

  The detective—his name was Jonah Landry—frowned down at her. “The evidence team collected everything at the scene.”

  “That coat was the killer’s.”

  Dean closed in on them.

  Emma glanced back at him. “Didn’t it look familiar to you?”

  It had been a black coat, old, frayed.

  “He was wearing it when he attacked us at The Mask. Only the guy was pretending to be crazy at the time, and I bought his act.”

  Dean stiffened. Sonofabitch.

  “It’s the same coat. It has the same frays. The same stains. It was the same size. It is him.”

  Now Landry was looking uncertain. “You know the killer, ma’am?”

  “You had the bastard at the precinct. He was locked in your drunk tank last night.” Her heart raced in her chest. “Only I didn’t look past his surface. I knew to look past the surface, and I didn’t.”