by Sean Platt
Ray sat, met her gaze.
The pain inside his eyes was a twin of the agony that Mal had carried for years. And despite all the pain he’d caused her, that they’d inflicted upon one another — who even knew who was most to blame anymore — she wanted to ease his burden. Wanted to help him repair things with Julie.
“Somehow I managed to stay sober. To carry on with the business of living. I don’t know how, and it wasn’t always easy, but I was able to find a reason to wake up. But then … then Paul took you. And there it was, that hole. Turned out it wasn’t filled, just spackled over. When I thought you might die, I could only think about how I failed you. How I failed us. And how unfair it was that I didn’t do more to try to fill that hole inside you. To help you get over Ashley’s death. To be there for you. And it killed me, not being able to save you from that bastard.”
He stopped talking, took another sip of his coffee.
Mal stared down at her mug again, fighting welling eyes and a trembling lip. Not looking up at him, staying hidden behind her long brown curls, she said, “And what does this have to do with you and Julie?”
Please don’t tell me you realized you still love me. Please, whatever you do, do NOT say that.
She braced for his response.
“Well, after what almost happened at the hotel, I went downstairs, got in my car, and fought like hell not to run back up, knock on your door, and be with you that night. I don’t know, a part of me always thought we’d end up together again someday in the future. Maybe after we were older and wiser, we’d find our way back. I know it’s shitty to think like that, to you and to Julie. But hell, Mal, you were my first love. You were my best friend. And to suddenly almost lose you, it …”
She swallowed.
“I sat in the car forever. And then I went home. Nothing’s been the same between us since. I find myself getting mad at Julie for the silliest reasons. I can’t stop thinking about you, and wondering what might have happened if I’d stayed that night.”
Ray swallowed, looked down.
Mal could tell he was trying not to cry.
Her gut was on a roller coaster with a drunk carney at the controls. She tried to process — hell, to figure out — what Ray was saying while sorrow and rage fought for the stage in her mind.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“You asked me to tell you what’s wrong.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what to do with what you’ve told me. You’re saying that you wish we were still together?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying. All I know is that I don’t want to lose you.”
Mal wanted to yell at him. Wanted to tell him he was too late, that he’d lost her the moment he chose the bottle over his family.
But the addict in her understood something now that she hadn’t back then. And another part of her also saw her culpability. She wasn’t easy to get along with. She brought her job home and probably could’ve done more to be there for him.
A small part of Mal wanted to hug him, kiss him, and take him back to her hotel. To steal him back from Julie. Who the hell was Julie, anyway? She hadn’t been dating him forever. She wasn’t there all those years as they struggled as young parents. She didn’t have to bury Ashley.
Who the hell was Julie to be with her Ray?
But, in the end, he chose to leave. Mal gave him an ultimatum, straighten up or hit the bricks. And he chose to go.
Mal understood, but she wasn’t sure she could ever really forgive.
A part of her would always love him, but going back would be a mistake.
A twisted part of Mal delighted in knowing that she could steal him from Julie. Hell, a part of her wanted to hurt the woman, even though Julie had never intentionally done a thing to hurt her. She was an ad rep at his paper, a beautiful distraction for a crumbling man. From the couple of times they’d run into each other, Julie had seemed perfectly nice. And Mal wanted Ray to be happy, so it irrational to hate the woman who took her husband.
“Go home to your girlfriend,” Mal said, finally meeting his eyes. She hadn’t intended to sound so cold, but she also knew that if she allowed this to go on, she’d either snap at him or cry. Hell, she might even wind up bringing him back to her hotel.
Mal needed to be strong, for both of them.
Something shifted in his eyes, maybe Ray realizing that he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry.”
He stood, pulled two twenties from his wallet and dropped them on the table. “I’ll get a Lyft home.”
“Goodnight, Ray.”
He walked away, shoulders hunched.
Mal stared into her empty mug.
****
CHAPTER 6 - MALLORY BLACK
Mal drove from the coffee shop to the Parke Grande — one of two luxury hotels in Creek County located on the beach. She’d been staying there since Paul Dodd had violated her home and nearly murdered her and Jessi Price.
Some of her co-workers had teased Mal about staying somewhere so expensive, the kind of place most deputies couldn’t afford for a weekend, let alone live on a regular basis.
Mike had asked her why she didn’t just sell her house if she couldn’t imagine sleeping there. But she brushed him off, saying she’d sell the house when she was ready. She hadn’t intended to be so short, but couldn’t argue the effectiveness of being an occasional bitch.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford to treat herself. She’d won the lottery years ago and had more money than she could reasonably spend in her lifetime. She had no children to benefit from an inheritance. Why not stay at a nice place where your bed was always made, where you could order a meal anytime day or night, where you could swim to the edge of the pool to claim your drink?
She parked in the garage, took an elevator to the tenth floor, and walked to room 1040 — the hotel’s farthest corner, away from regular foot traffic.
She used the key card, opened the door, then entered the room and dropped her purse on the small table in the kitchen suite.
She went to the fridge, grabbed a Corona, and headed out onto the balcony overlooking a beautiful view of the night sky and ocean below.
She plopped on one of the two lounge chairs, took a swig of Corona, and closed her eyes, allowing the cool salty breeze and the sound of ocean waves to wash over her, sinking into their violent yet calming collision.
The sound drowned the day’s gory events.
Washed away the echoes of her life’s bloodiest moments.
A part of her wanted to sit here forever, and she could.
Mal didn’t need to work.
She didn’t have to put in long hours at a thankless, unending job which only existed because people would always continue to murder their friends, neighbors, strangers, and enemies. Even their children. In a perfect world, Mal’s job wouldn’t even exist.
At the same time, a part of her needed to work. Not just any work, but this exact work. Part of her thrived while processing the brutal aftermath of a crime scene. That part of her enjoyed assembling the puzzle, working to discover the how and why that would drive a person to murder. To deliver justice, yes, but also to prevent the murderer from claiming more lives.
But Mal hated how it went today.
Not only did her lead suspect escape punishment by taking the coward’s exit, he may also have left a host of sexual abuse victims in his wake.
And what could she do about that if the man was already dead?
Find more evidence. More heartbreaking crimes that he’d never have to answer for.
Days like today sucked.
Mal took another drink.
Then another.
And as Mal tried to relax, she kept thinking about how much time she’d probably be spending on this case, following leads, with few of them going anywhere.
She stood, restless, then went inside, closed the balcony door, and returned to the fridge.
She had bottled water, a half-gallon of expired two percent milk, and
a couple of Coronas.
She didn’t even like Corona. It was left over from a six-pack Mike had brought over when he and Gena had come over to hang.
She closed the fridge, went to the closet door and slid it open to the safe.
Inside was the only thing that would calm her.
The pills she hadn’t touched in six months.
A full bottle waiting to be opened.
No.
She shed her work clothes, freshened up, slipped into a little black dress, grabbed her purse and key card, then headed downstairs to the bar.
The hotel’s restaurant bar was called Oasis at Parke Grande, and was one of the posher places in Creek County. That meant she wouldn’t have to deal with assholes or loud music. A place where getting properly drunk before heading upstairs to bed was a straightforward proposition.
Mal found a cozy spot in the back of the room where she could be left alone and hopefully not run into anyone she knew.
She was two stiff whiskeys in when her waiter, wearing the restaurant’s all-black pants, shirt, and tie, approached with a third glass of Glenfiddich on the rocks.
“Compliments of Mr. Ramos.”
The waiter nodded toward the bar where a young Latin man with long brown hair hanging slightly over his eyes raised his drink to Mal with a boyish smile. Even from this distance, she could see how well his midnight blue suit hugged his lean but muscular body.
She took the drink, raised it, and returned his smile before taking a swallow.
The waiter left. The man at the bar glanced back at Mal.
She smiled again, feeling pleasantly buzzed. Flirty.
He approached her table, carrying a half-full glass of red wine.
She sat up taller, observing his approach, sizing him up. You could tell a lot about a man from his walk. The way a man moved across a room could tease the way he might move between the sheets.
He looked down at the seat across from Mal and spoke with a delicious Spanish accent. “Is this seat taken?”
“No.” Mal pushed the bottom of the chair out with her foot, maintaining eye contact, a slight grin playing at the corners of her mouth.
He offered his hand, “My name is Edgar Ramos. And you are?”
“Mallory,” she said, taking his hand. His touch was firm, yet gentle. He seemed confident, but not too cocky. A man used to getting what he wanted, but still polite enough to ask nicely.
“Ah, Mallory, a lovely name,” he said, claiming the opposite seat.
“What brings you to Creek County?”
“I’m in town meeting a client. And what brings you here?”
“I live here,” she said, immediately wishing she’d thought of a lie.
There was nothing worse than hooking up with a guy who knew you stayed at a hotel. He’d eventually start creeping around the bar, hoping for another tumble, at which time she’d have to tell him what was what, which was always uncomfortable. Another reason Mal typically hooked up with dickheads, guys that wouldn’t be needy and wondering when they’d see each other again.
Mal neither needed or wanted a relationship.
“What business are you in?” She took a sip, watching Edgar as he spoke. He was easily one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. His skin was flawless, and his eyes a deep chocolate that begged for her stare, and his teeth gleamed perfect, straight and white. For a moment she was certain he was going to tell her that he was a movie star or model. Maybe a famous athlete.
“Import, export. But we’re only in town for a few days. It’s a quaint city.”
“You mean small and boring.”
He laughed. “Not at all.”
“It’s okay; you’re not offending me. We’re still in the up part of the up and coming phase. But it’s quiet. Probably not at all what you’re used to? Where are you from?”
“Madrid. And yes, it’s a bit different. Have you ever been to Spain?”
“No, the farthest I’ve been out of the US is into Mexico for spring break.”
“And how was that?”
She laughed. “Honestly? It was awful. I was sick half the trip.”
He sipped his wine. “So, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a librarian.”
“Really?” He looked her up and down, surprised. “You don’t seem like a librarian.”
Mal had barely fixed her hair, but Edgar was eyeing her like she was the hottest woman in the bar.
“Oh, yeah? What do I seem like, then?”
She smiled, and downed the rest of her whiskey, watching him work for a response.
“I was thinking a hitman. Or woman.”
She laughed. “Really? And what makes you say that?”
“You look like you’ve seen a lot.”
She nodded. “And?”
“You don’t seem like someone who sits in a library all day.”
“Okay, you got me. I’m a hitman. I hang out in bars waiting for my target to buy me a drink.”
He laughed again.
“Oh, you think I’m kidding? Your boss hired me. Told me to poison your wine. The waiter you asked to bring me a drink? That’s Chris. He’s my partner. The poison should reach your bloodstream in, say, another five minutes.”
He smiled, but his face paled.
She laughed, hard. “I’m kidding.”
He laughed, uncomfortably.
She felt like a giant dork, trying to recover from a crash-landed joke. Detectives usually had gallows humor, and sometimes it was hard to remember that most citizens were on a different page.
“So, no, really, what do you do?”
She wasn’t about to tell him the truth, even if he’d be gone in a day or so. Telling strangers you were a detective never made things easier. Either they, or a friend or family member, had suffered a bad experience with a cop that is suddenly your fault, or they were one of those people who couldn’t stop asking questions. And the question Mal hated most was whether or not she’d ever shot anyone. Most people meant no harm, but it never came off well. It was a highly personal question, and people always seemed excited about what, for most cops, was one of their worst days ever.
“I’m a waitress. I’m not sure what I was thinking, but it’s such a boring job. So of course, I picked an even more boring one to impress you.”
“Well, I’m flattered.” His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. “Do you mind?”
She shrugged.
Edgar stood, and took his call into the lobby.
She was feeling good, but could use another drink. But she was also aroused and didn’t want to get wasted.
When Edgar finally returned, Mal stood to meet him. She didn’t wait for him to sit for more small talk, exchange witty banter, and dance around the thing they both wanted.
“Are you staying in the hotel?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyebrows arching. “Why do you ask?”
She grabbed his tie, pulled him closer, and whispered into his ear.
He smiled as she pulled away. She wouldn’t have to ask twice.
**
It was four in the morning when Mal woke, head pounding, naked beside the beautiful Spaniard.
She crawled out of bed quietly so as not to wake him. Nothing worse than an awkward goodbye to a one-night-stand.
Slipping out of the room was her best approach. Another good reason to live at a hotel, particularly when the men she slept with had no idea she spent a fair share of her life on the top floor.
But fumbling in a dark room for her clothes and purse were never as easy as she wanted.
She slipped on her clothes, crept past him, sneaking one last look at his bare ass before leaving his room.
Thankfully the hallway was empty as she made her way to the elevator.
She pressed the tenth-floor button, then pulled the phone from her purse and eyed the screen, surprised to see that she’d missed two messages, both from just after one in the morning.
They were from Katie Turner.
; It’s Katie. I need to talk.
* * * *
CHAPTER 7 - JASPER PARISH
Four years ago
Jasper swung into his driveway, surprised to see a classic red Corvette Stingray shining like it just left the showroom in his SUV’s usual spot.
Jordyn didn’t have any friends as far as he knew, especially one with a driver’s license. They had only moved in a few months ago, during summer. In the two weeks since school had started, Jordyn hadn’t connected with anyone. She had once been a vibrant child who made friends easily. But ever since her mother’s death she’d crawled into a cocoon that Jasper wasn’t sure she’d ever emerge from, despite their fresh start.
Excited by the prospect that Jordyn had made a friend, particularly one with such excellent taste in cars, Jasper was buoyed as he parked, grabbed groceries from the back seat, and headed for the front door.
He entered the house and saw Jordyn’s new friend sitting beside her on the couch, reading lines from a play. A young man with short blond hair, a preppy shirt tucked deep into his pants. Neat, well put together, not a single piercing or tattoo in sight.
Jordyn popped up from the couch. “Hi, Daddy.”
The young man stood, casually, not at all startled to see Jordyn’s father standing there. “Hey, Mr. Parish,” he said, extending his hand. “Bobby Hollingsworth.”
Jasper went from the kitchen to the living room, sizing the young man up, trying to determine his age. Was he seventeen, like Jordyn? He looked at least a year older. Hell, he could’ve been in college.
God, I hope he’s not a college kid.
And why does she have some guy in the house all alone?
He’d never told Jordyn that she couldn’t have a boy over. Aside from a few infatuations in grade school, Jordyn had never seemed interested in dating. She was more into her school work, drama, books, and writing stories. Still, Jasper thought it was one of those unspoken rules that she ought to just know.
Jasper had hoped he’d somehow escape this stage, and yet here was Bobby Hollingsworth, in all his six-foot-three, chiseled jaw, good looks, standing right next to Jordyn.