by Trisha Wolfe
I turn to look at him. “He couldn’t cut you some slack tonight?”
He huffs a laugh. “You’d think. But no, there was still the matter of Connelly’s death to close out.”
My breath stills in my chest.
“Connelly was reported missing. Body never found. After the night you told me to look into him, I reopened the investigation into his disappearance.” Quinn’s gaze remains steady on the linoleum floor.
I grip the cup. Ready. “You need a statement from me,” I say. “All right. I’ll follow you to the department. Let’s make it official.”
He sighs. “Apparently, the Feds never closed their investigation on him. When they first showed up, I thought it was my interest in the case that brought them here. That I’d set off some red flags…and I was terrified, Bonds.” He looks at me then. “For you. That’s not how I wanted it to go down.”
Confusion mars my face. “Because you want to bring me in.”
He expels a silent curse. “Do you really think I want to see my partner brought down by the Feds?”
“Then what are you saying, Quinn?”
He relieves me of my coffee, sets it on the floor. Looks into my eyes. “They did a thorough search of Simon’s boat and found journals. He liked to record things. And one of those things was how he did away with his mentor. He even noted where he burned the body.”
My heart flutters wildly, my pulse slamming against my veins. “That’s impossible. That doesn’t fit his profile. At all. He wouldn’t be capable of killing his master—”
“Proctor wanted me to sign off on the case. I did. The case is closed. They’re still going to inspect the scene, look for any trace of Connelly’s remains…but it’s highly unlikely anything will be uncovered by this point.”
I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “But…you know it isn’t true. You know—”
Quinn presses a finger over my mouth. My whole body freezes. His eyes bore into mine as he says, “I don’t know anything.”
He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then drops his hand as he rises and walks away.
I stare after him. At my partner.
17
The Still, Dark Haunts
Colton
I finish stuffing another box full of Julian’s suits. Bethany wanted me to take them, said they’d look good on me, that Julian would want me to have them—but I don’t need my brother’s tailored suits to remember him by.
Besides, they wouldn’t look good on me.
They’re going to be donated to one of his many charities. This time, for real. My brother had a lot of bogus charity contributions as a cover to shuffle around his money. It seems fitting that as his final act he should honor them with his most prized possession. His damn suits.
During the funeral yesterday, I was worried about the mix of people. The one thing I’m sure my brother cared about was Bethany. Whatever double life he was leading behind her back is over now. So she shouldn’t have to suffer that discovery on top of his death. But just like their engagement party, where my brother was able to pull off his double life, seems even from the grave he’s full of swagger. The wake went just as smoothly.
I tape up the last box and toss it into the hallway. At least doing this for Bethany makes me feel a little less shitty. I still don’t know why the UNSUB—or Simon—killed Julian. Why he felt my brother was a threat that needed to be eliminated. My brother’s only crime was in knowing I ended Marni’s life. That I staged her crime scene to pin it on a serial killer.
I know it was Julian who deleted the club surveillance footage—the footage the analysts were never able to recover. I just don’t know why he did it. And now, I’ll never know.
Sadie has a theory. It’s as good as any. She thinks the UNSUB was allowing Julian to blackmail him in order to have access to the club. Simon proved to be a member of The Lair. He used a pseudonym and his member profile was completely phony; it was so vanilla and unassuming that I skipped right past him during my search.
That still pisses me off—that I couldn’t recognize a psychopathic sadist in my own club. But truthfully, Julian conducted all the interviews. It was most likely during that exchange when an agreement was reached between them. I’ve battled the past three days with wanting to know…and wanting to forget.
My brother knew the cops were looking at the club. He knew the killer was possibly a member. If Julian figured out who he was…then it’s logical the UNSUB needed to get rid of him.
It’s clean. It puts all doubts away. I try to let that be my answer.
Most of the time, I’m able to accept it. The Feds and the ACPD, and hell, even Carson accepts it—that should be reason enough for me. And I like the idea that my brother was attempting to do the right thing in the end. That maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t trying to delete that footage… That he was trying to copy it to send to the cops.
I force out a breath and wipe my hands off on a rag, officially done.
I’m done.
Taking another glance around my brother’s home, saying my last goodbye, I head downstairs.
“You’re off?”
I turn to see Bethany in the living room, a small box in her hands.
“I’m done, so yeah. I have to finish up signing some documents with his lawyer. Figured I’d go take care of that now.” The documents which officially make me the owner of The Lair. The process was already started before his death; this will just make it legit.
She smiles. “Well, thank you. I appreciate the help. It’s been hard trying to go through his stuff…” She trails off, shakes her head. “Anyway. Julian had a box of memorabilia. I could never get him to throw it out.” She laughs. “He was such a packrat. I thought you’d like to have it.”
I hold up my hand, about to refuse, but she says, “Please, Colton. I know he’d want you to have it.”
I accept the box with a tight smile. My final act as Julian’s brother.
* * *
I spring awake, my heart galloping in my chest.
The AC blasts my sweat-slicked skin, the covers a tangled mess around my ankles. I wipe a hand down my face, clearing the burning sweat from my eyes.
The pitch black plays tricks on my mind…and just for a second…I think I see Sadie standing at the foot of the bed.
I reach over and switch on the lamp. Her jean jacket hangs on the coat hanger along the wall. I lie back and roll over, reaching out to pull her close, but my hand grasps at empty space.
“Sadie?”
My voice sounds odd in her bedroom. I’m not used to sleeping at her apartment yet. But since Avery’s rescue, she’s been too high strung to sleep at mine, not wanting to upset my roommate Jefferson every time she screams out in the night.
It’s the first time I’ve awoken before the screaming starts.
Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed, I push onto my feet and head to the bathroom. The nightlight illuminates my shadowy reflection in the mirror. I can see the pallor of my complexion, enhanced by the dim, blue light.
After I relieve myself, my brain is awake and functional. I search for Sadie in the living room, the kitchen, her office. The laptop is on. I can’t stop the dread climbing up my spine. I grab my phone and call her. No answer. I send her a text.
Me: Where are you, goddess?
I wait, hoping to see the three little dots that signify she’s typing back—but they never appear.
She’s at the department. Some call came in, and fucking Quinn couldn’t let it wait till morning. That’s what my brain wants to believe…but the nagging suspicion that something’s wrong won’t let me. Not fully.
I’ve watched her for three days. Three furious days full of events. The funeral. The wake. Avery’s recovery. Further investigation into Simon Whitmore. It’s been nonstop—and all through it, I’ve watched Sadie. Calm. Collected. Removed.
But I know she’s been through this before; she’s been through far worse. Distancing herself is a defense mechanism. She has old wounds to
protect.
I sit down in her office chair and my gaze lands on Julian’s box. I rip the tape off and flip the cardboard flaps open. A framed photo of me, Julian, and Marni stares back at me. It was taken one night at the bar we frequented. It was taken before Julian and I had the fight. Before Marni was diagnosed with cancer.
I set it on the desk and dig through the other contents of the box. All stuff that wouldn’t mean much to anyone other than Julian. Baseball cards from when he was a kid. His piggy bank. A laugh escapes me. I take out the porcelain bank, an actual fat pig that he cherished. It was his first practice into the art of blackmail.
You’d think with how he valued money, he’d have actually used it for that purpose. But even then, even as a kid, Julian understood that secrets were a cash commodity. He used to hide little notes inside; things he caught people doing. My dad sneaking a porno mag in with the groceries. Stupid shit like that.
I forgot all about it until now. I lift the bank out and hear a tinker. I shake it, then uncork the bottom. A USB drive falls into my lap.
With a sick twist in the pit of my stomach, I grab the drive. I don’t have to look at what’s on it; I already know. And if I do look…there’s no going back. That reality where my brother was the good guy in his final moments will be shattered. I was willing to let it ride—I spent two years hating him, blaming him. I should let it ride.
But my hand is already finding the USB port on the side of Sadie’s laptop. The drive is already booting up. The file pops open on the screen, revealing months of labeled footage.
I click open the top file. My brother’s image inside the club is clear and present. The timestamp denotes it’s about an hour before Carson and I showed up. Julian walks right through the club. But when he reaches the office door, he looks up at the hallway camera…and waves. The footage cuts off shortly after he goes inside.
Icy fingers trail my back.
I skip down to the night the UNSUB sent me a pic of Sadie in the club. It’s timestamped and labeled: Sadie and Wells.
My hand hovers over the mouse pad, my fingers trembling. Either with fear or hesitation, it’s the same. But I click the file and start the footage.
For a few minutes, everything looks normal. Nothing out of the ordinary happens. Sadie watches the stage, glancing over her shoulder toward the entryway every couple of minutes. She’s waiting for me. The sickness takes hold when I see him.
Standing at the bar, watching her.
I’ve seen him before.
He lifts his phone in her direction. There. Right there. The image that was sent to me. He sent it. And fucking Julian knew… Why the hell didn’t he tell me?
There’s footage of this guy all over the file. All labeled: Watcher Wells.
With adrenaline pumping, I close the footage and open the file dated for the first night I spoke to Sadie. Our very first conversation, when I finally found an opening to approach her.
I thought I was taking advantage of that moment. There was an asshole in a business suit hitting on her…and it was the perfect instance to meet her. No one could have planned a better chance encounter.
But he did.
I watch as the scene plays out. The guy in the dark gray business suit walking up to Sadie. Her demeanor changing, becoming withdrawn. Me leaning against the wall, watching them. When he bends down and touches her…then pulls her against him…that’s when I act.
What did he say?
“She wants it. She’s just shy… She needs a little persuading.”
And in his own demented way, he’s been trying to persuade her ever since, the sick shit. I accused him of not watching her. Of not understanding what she needed. Of not knowing that she hates being touched.
He knew it all.
Watcher Wells. Mother fucker. He’d been stalking her the whole damn time.
It happened so quickly.
I never thought about that guy again. Not once.
The bad apple.
18
Master
Sadie
The alleyway is damp and chilly. Fall grips the air, letting us know winter’s presence is inevitable. The storm that blew through left behind a frigid reminder that we’re all susceptible to the cold and dark nights.
My heels clack against the pavement. The echo being drowned out by the thump of bass the closer I get. I turn a corner and music bleeds into the street—an invitation to enter the only nightlife along this strip of the city.
So I do. I walk through the doors of the bar, where just above a neon sign blazes: Raven.
It’s a small bar. Trendy. Only a handful of two-seater tables, one pool table, and a long stretch of cherry oak bar top that wraps toward the back wall. That’s where I sit; the far corner where I can see the front door, the one leading to a single bathroom, and the scope of the room.
As the bartender approaches, a man with a beard and stretched earlobes, I order my pink champagne, having to shout over the music. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t mock my choice. I stare at the door, absentmindedly fingering the crest dangling from my neck.
A clatter draws my attention, and I whip around as someone whoops. Billiard balls bounce around the black felt, and I watch three sink home into the corner pockets.
“Ma’am.”
I swivel back around to find the bartender eyeing me. He sets the flute down, then slides a tumbler my way. “SoCo on the rocks.”
The nape of my neck tingles; the tiny hairs lifting away from my skin.
“I didn’t order that,” I say.
He tries to smooth it over with a smile. “No, ma’am. The gentleman at that table did.” He nods toward the opposite corner.
I don’t turn to look. Accepting my drinks with a corresponding smile, I pick up both the flute and the tumbler. Then I scoot off the barstool, my feet sure and my back straight as I pivot and saunter toward the table.
“Enjoying his drink is a little tacky, don’t you think?”
The man in the gray business suit drags his gaze over me. From my legs, up my red dress, to the necklace, meeting my eyes. A crooked smile hikes the corner of his mouth, jogging my memory. It’s the same knowing smirk he gave me that night in the club.
“It can’t be in bad taste if we enjoy it, now can it?” he says, his voice a mix of dark seduction and farce. “Have a seat. Please. I beg of you.”
I don’t approve of having my back to an open room, but considering the company, it’s best to keep my undivided attention on him. I set my drinks down and take the seat across the table from the UNSUB—who is no longer an unknown subject.
This secluded section gives us enough privacy, while being a good distance from the bar speakers so we can hear clearly, but our voices don’t carry to the other patrons. He chose well.
I drink from the tumbler, deciding that it’s about time I sample what Connelly favored, before I steeple my hands over the drink. “I feel as if introductions are a little late, but just the same…” I say, prompting him.
He crooks another smile at me. “Our given names are so trivial. But if my lady must know, I go by Price Alexander Wells.” His finger traces the tumbler before him as his dark eyes dance over my skin. “Lawyer by day, outlaw by night.” His smile dims when his poor joke gets no result. He clears his throat. “You have to forgive me. I’m somewhat nervous. See, this is a big moment for me.”
“Me, too,” I indulge him.
His smile returns.
“So, a lawyer,” I say, running my finger over the rim of the glass. “You wouldn’t happen to be Connelly’s lawyer. The same lawyer that transferred the title of his sailboat into Simon’s name.”
“Nothing slips past you.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Connelly thought it’d be a good idea to have a lawyer in his pocket. I guess, more than anything, that’s why he chose me. I used to flatter myself that there were other, more notable reasons. But when it comes right down to it, people are selfish beasts.”
“We are,” I agree.
He sits forward. “I hate to ask…because fishing is in such poor taste…but did you enjoy my gifts?”
A sharp pain hitches my breathing. The press of a blade against my thigh helps me swallow the yelp clawing up my throat, and I still the squirm traveling over me. “To answer that question truthfully, yes. At least, a part of me enjoyed them.”
His eyes darken. “I had hoped they wouldn’t be a disappointment. That by now, you’d realize that’s the only part that matters.”
The blade is gone within the same beat that he pushes back in his chair, giving me the space I need to present my case. I drink my champagne. All of it.
Then, “There are two antisocial dispositions”—I narrow my gaze—“psychopaths and sociopaths. Those who are born, and those who are forged.”
He clips a light laugh. “Battle of wills, is it?”
I nod slowly.
Arrogantly—as I anticipated he would be—he reaches across the table and steals my tumbler. His eyes drill into me as he tips the SoCo to his mouth. Then he returns the drink to me. “I always take what I want. I have since birth. So I suppose that means I was born to it,” he says effortlessly.
“And I was created.”
“The difference?”
The difference? Is there a difference when it comes right down to it? Until Colton found me, I thought I was incapable of feeling. Of empathy. After my captor broke me down to my barest attributes, I saw just how similar I was to him—how when stripped of all the things we think matter, everything we believe defines us, we’re all just creatures who will hurt, kill, deceive…who will do anything to survive. But not just survive: thrive.
The lesson my captor taught me was this: destroy or be destroyed.
Pain doesn’t always stem from those who intend us harm. It can come from the ones we trust the most. A parent—a well-meaning parent who, trying her best to shelter her child, suffocates them. A lover who believes he’s helping you overcome your pain, but inflicts it upon you in the process. Because he loves you so deeply…he can’t live without you. His codependency becomes your guilt.