“I was hoping you could tell me,” she said, doing her best to keep her tone light. According to Val, this was the only decent flower shop between home and the station. It felt like Val was constantly asking her to stop in on her way home to pick up a bunch of this or that for her clients. She set the vase on the counter and backed away. “They turned up on my desk this afternoon without a card. Is there anything you can tell me that would help me figure out where they came from?” She left out the part about how this was one of countless arrangements that she’d received over the course of the last two months. No need to involve him any further than absolutely necessary.
Nolan waved a dramatic hand through the air before settling it on his hip. “They’re roses, honey—not a crystal ball,” he said, reaching out to finger a smooth, red petal. “But whoever it is has fabulous taste. Do you mind?”
She shook her head and watched as he gently cupped the head of the rose, tugging the stem free from the bunch. As soon as he pulled it free, he frowned, holding it up for inspections, turning it this way and that.
“I can tell you where they didn’t come from. They didn’t come from a flower shop,” he said, looking up at her. “See these thorns?” he pointed at the stem. It was covered in large, hooked barbs. “Most roses grown for commercial use are bred for smaller, weaker thorns, making them easier to clean. These suckers are huge—” He stopped, peering even closer at the stem, confusion followed by a look of disbelief. He pulled a piece of tissue paper from the dispenser under the counter and laid the rose on top of it. “Wait here,” he said, hurrying toward the back of the shop and into the walk-in cooler.
He was back a minute later, a long-stemmed red rose in his hand. “These just came in, so I haven’t had a chance to clean them yet.” He held it up between them. “Do you see these?” he said, hooking the tip of his floral knife under one if the thorns. “See the difference?”
Sabrina looked down at the rose on the counter. The thorns on the rose she’d brought in were definitely bigger and sharper … she looked up at the flower Nolan held for her and felt a tingling flush run along her skin. She picked up the rose on the counter and held it next to the one in Nolan’s hand just to make sure …
“These thorns curve upward,” she said, finally looking Nolan in the face. “Is that normal? Do some species have thorns that do that?”
“Normal?” Nolan huffed out a laugh as he pulled what looked like a larger, stainless-steel staple remover from his apron pocket. “There’s absolutely nothing normal about that,” he said, nodding his head at the rose she held. He clipped the set of two-pronged teeth around the top of the stem he held, under the first set of leaves, and pulled it down. Leaves and thorns gave way with ease, falling onto the counter in a scattered pile.
“Then how did it happen?”
Nolan set the newly cleaned rose on the counter and took the other from her. “Someone bred them that way. And before you ask, why someone would do that is totally beyond me, honey.” He gingerly tucked the rose back into the vase and nudged it toward her. “My best guess is whoever sent them to you is into horticulture. Whoever he is, he knows what he’s doing and doesn’t mind getting his hand chewed off in the name of love.”
THIRTY-THREE
Sabrina thanked Nolan and left, roses tucked back into the box on the seat next to her. She parked across the street and studied the house, a rambling Victorian, painted a soft yellow with slate gray trim. She hadn’t wanted to buy the place. It was too big, too extravagant. Too conspicuous. St. Francis Wood was far more than she could ever swing on a cop’s salary, but Val had insisted. She was one of the top interior designers in the Bay area, so she could afford it.
Her gaze drifted along the yard and porch before settling on the driveway. Her nerves ratcheted a bit tighter. Nickels’s black Titan was parked right behind Val’s snazzy red sports car. She stayed where she was, contemplated driving away. She could go back to Miss Ettie’s. Curl up in Michael’s bed and just go to sleep …
Leaning across the seat, she gathered the box and forced herself to get out the car. Bumping the door closed with her hip, she set the alarm before crossing the street. Jason still hadn’t pulled the trash can in off the curb. She stopped next to it and set the box on the ground, reaching for the flowers, ready to toss them in.
The front door opened. “Sorry, Mom. I got home late from practice,” Jason said to her, jogging across the front yard to snag the trash can. He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her cheek. In spite of everything, she smiled. Jason always had that effect on her. She put the vase back in the box and picked it up.
“It’s okay. How was your day?” she said as they walked up the length of the driveway.
“Good.” He shot her a look over the top of the can between them. “I turned in my final project for the Henry-Pryce Fellowship today.”
His project. The one she’d promised to help him with. “I’m sorry, J. I just—”
“I know. Val told us the two of you had a fight,” he said with a shrug but wouldn’t look at her. “Besides, Devon was here. He helped me.”
She looked over her shoulder at the truck parked in her usual spot. “Nick was here?”
“Yeah. After you took off, Val kinda freaked. I think they were up all night trying to find you,” Jason said, finally looking in her direction. She could see the worry and fear etched plainly on his face. It made him look old, much older than seventeen. He set the trash can next to the back stoop and she dropped the box on top of it.
“I want to show you something.” She nodded her head toward the back of the house beyond the fence and his followed. “See that window—second floor, third from the left?” she said, pointing her finger at Miss Ettie’s house in the distance.
“Yeah.”
“That’s where I was. I didn’t go anywhere dangerous; I didn’t do anything crazy … I just needed some time. That’s all,” she said.
“I remember, you know. When Wade took you the first time. I remember the way Val cried. She cried for days, so long and hard we thought it’d kill her,” he said. “She cried that way last night and I thought … ” Jason turned to look at her. “You can’t do that. You can’t just disappear. Not again.” Red splotches erupted on his cheeks and neck, an unfortunate side-effect of a red-headed temper.
She threw her arms around him and held him tight. He’d been two going on three when it’d happened. Trauma was a funny thing. It either wiped you clean or burned itself into your memory forever. She knew what those scars felt like. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jason.” She pulled away just enough to frame his face in her hands. She smoothed her fingers over his forehead and had to look up to meet his eyes. When had he gotten so tall? When had her baby brother become a young man? “It was a horrible thing to do, and I shouldn’t have done it.” She shook her head. “Forgive me?”
Jason pulled her hands off his face and held them. “Just promise not to do it again.”
“I promise.”
He smiled at her. “Okay.”
They turned toward the house and made their way toward the back door. She could hear music coming from the kitchen. Emilie Simon’s “Fleur de Saison.” She looked at Jason with a hopeful smile. “Coq au vin?”
Laughing, he stooped to pick up her box of stuff. “It’s what’s for dinner.” The roses brushed against his cheek and she had the sudden urge to scrub the spot clean, like she did when he’d been younger.
“No. Just leave it out here,” she said.
He looked curious but didn’t say anything. “You sure?”
“Positive.” She took a closer look at the carport and noticed that the ancient Volvo the twins shared was gone. “Where’s Ry?”
“It’s Friday. Piano until seven.” They stepped into the kitchen. “Look who I found,” Jason said with a grin, dropping a kiss on Val’s cheek as he passed by the stove. He kept going, heading up
the rear stairs to the second floor, out of the line of fire. Smart kid.
Sabrina stood there, feeling awkward. Like a guest in her own home. Val was staring at her from the stove while Nickels watched them from the kitchen table. He looked relaxed. Like he belonged there.
“You keep showing up like this, I’m gonna start charging you rent,” she said, shrugging out of her jacket and hanging her keys on the peg next to the door.
“I invited him.”
She turned around to look at Val. “Yeah, you seem to have a habit of doing that lately.”
A flush of red rushed into Val’s cheeks and she shot a quick look at Nickels like she needed encouragement. She licked her lips, her gaze darting toward Sabrina again. “About that … I’m sorry for last night—letting Croft in. I didn’t know what else to do. We’re just—”
Not an apology. Not really. Just an excuse, one she’d heard plenty. She turned away from Val and looked Nickels in the eye. “So tell me, Nick, which one of them called you last night to come babysit me, her or Strickland?”
Nick shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced at Val. That was all the answer she needed. She let out a sigh, nodding her head a little. “Right. So, I’m only going to say it once: I don’t want, nor do I need, a babysitter. I don’t want, nor need, to talk about Wade. I killed him—pretty sure that closed the subject. Do you understand?” She bounced a look between the two of them, daring them to say a word to the contrary and nodded again when neither of them spoke. “Good talk. I’m gonna go take a shower,” she said, not bothering to look at either one of them as she crossed the kitchen to pass through the dining and living room, mounting the main staircase as quickly as the pain in her leg would allow.
THIRTY-FOUR
First thing she did was power up her computer. She typed in her password and logged on to the Internet, going straight to her email. There was a message waiting for her from David Song along with a very large video attachment.
He’d come through.
Audio would’ve been nice, but it wasn’t necessary. The footage started at midnight and stretched on until noon. That gave her twelve hours of footage to review.
He’d called her from the pre-paid cell bought at Song’s bodega a few minutes after noon—right after the flowers had been delivered to her desk. If he bought the phone that morning, like Anderson claimed, he’d be caught on camera.
She downloaded the file and cued it up. Six panels popped up on her computer screen, each offering a different camera angle. She used her mouse pad to click play, leaning forward a bit, as if sitting closer to the screen would ensure she missed nothing.
She watched it on fast forward, a steady stream of people, all ages, shapes, and sizes, filing up to the counter to buy whatever it was they’d come for. Every time the clerk turned toward the back wall behind the counter, she slowed the tape to real time. The back wall was where Song kept the big ticket items. Liquor. Cigarettes. Condoms. Pre-paid cell phones.
At five a.m., a woman toddled in on cheap plastic platforms, wearing a skirt so short it was almost embarrassing. She headed straight for the cold case at the rear of the store. Sabrina watched on fast forward as she chose a cheap bottle of wine and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane, carrying both to the counter. The clerk turned toward the back wall. She slowed the playback just in time to watch him pull a pack of Magnums off the hook and toss them on the counter. The woman looked over her shoulder at someone or something that wasn’t caught on camera. She said something to the clerk and he turned again. Using a key hooked to his belt, he unlocked the plexiglass cabinet next to the cigarettes.
The woman was buying a cell phone. Sabrina paused the tape and leaned forward again, studying every angle the cameras offered. The woman’s face was haggard, worn down by addiction and a lifetime of bad choices. She looked like she was in her sixties, but Sabrina would guess closer to forty. She imagined that she’d been careful with her hair and make-up, styling both before she hit the street, but turning tricks all night hadn’t done her any favors. The make-up had succumbed to gravity, sliding down her face, giving it a melted candle look that was both comical and pathetic. It wasn’t her face Sabrina was focused on, though. It was her hair. Straw-yellow and sticking out in every direction—a bright red rose carefully tucked into the tangled mess of it.
THIRTY-FIVE
The rose was a sign. A sign meant for her. She isolated a close-up of the woman’s face and hit print.
Dinner and promises were forgotten. As soon as the picture hit the tray, Sabrina took it and stood, walking across her room to the exterior set of stairs. She stepped out the door and reached for her keys to lock up before she remembered that she’d left them on the peg downstairs. There would be no sneaking out. Not this time.
She shut the door and turned to find Nickels standing next to her bed. His arms hung limp against his sides. He looked tired, like being around her made him feel that way. “Dinner’s ready.”
She relocked the door. “Okay, thanks,” she said, just wanting to get rid of him.
“What’s that?”
She followed his line of sight. She’d been in such a hurry to find the woman that she’d left the footage up on her computer for anyone to find. “Nothing. Just a case I’m working.”
“What case?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she closed down her computer and tucked it into its case. When she lifted it off the desk and turned, Nickels was still standing there, watching her. She sighed. “I don’t have time—”
“What case?” He stood his ground, glaring down at her.
“Fine. You remember that red envelope I found at my desk last night? The one I didn’t want to open?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I opened it. Short version—the guy who left it for me is the same guy who’s been sending me the flowers. He killed a girl and made it pretty clear he’s gonna do it again.” She held up the picture she’d printed out. “This woman is the only lead so far. She might be able to give me a description of what he looks like, and I need to find her.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said, the glare on his face softening into something close to desperation.
“I need you to stay here. Watch over Val and the kids.” She shook his head when he started to protest. “I don’t know who this guy is. I don’t know where he is. The only thing I do know is that he’s planning on killing again.” They’d had this conversation before, standing on her back porch: him begging her not to go to Texas to help Michael find the man who killed his sister, her knowing she didn’t have a choice. “I have to find him, stop him—I can’t do that if I’m worrying about my family.”
“What about your promise to Riley?”
Riley. She almost relented before she remembered the quiet panic that had crowded the phone line when she’d talked to Riley early that day.
Mom, what’s wrong?
“She’ll understand,” she said, more to reassure herself than anyone else.
“Don’t be so sure of that.” He swiped a hand over his face. “Catching murderers isn’t your responsibility anymore, Sabrina. Pass it on to Strickland.”
She just shook her head. How was she supposed to explain something he’d never understand? It was her responsibility. Always would be.
Michael would’ve understood that. The thought popped into her head and as soon as it did, she realized that it was something she would always do. She’d always compare Nickels to Michael. And Nickels would come up short every time.
She dropped the laptop case and turned on him. “Did she tell you why I left? She let Croft into our home.” And since then, Sabrina had kicked his ass, given him a ride, and snuck him onto a crime scene. Even though she knew it was bullshit, she hung onto her anger.
Nickels scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, she told me. We did a fair amount of yelling at each other over it. But h
owever colossally stupid it was of her to ambush you like that, she did it because she loves you. She’s worried about you. We both are.”
She sighed. “I know. But she can’t fix me.” She held out her hands and shook her head. “And neither can you.”
He jerked his head back like she’d slapped him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She felt tears push against the back of her eyes. “You don’t love me, Devon. Not really,” she said. It was the first time she could remember calling him by his first name. “You want to save me. There’s a difference.” She thought about the way he’d kissed her, how careful he was when he touched her. Like she was damaged goods. How could she love someone who saw her like that?
He sat heavily on the foot of her bed, still looking at her. “Is it the doctor? Are you in love with him?”
Life would be so much easier if I was … “No. Liam is … a distraction.”
“Oh,” he said, understanding perfectly. “Him.”
She thought of Michael and nodded. “Yeah. Him.”
He reached out and took her hand. “You’re wrong, you know.” He smiled at her. “I do love you.” She looked at him, into those whiskey-colored eyes. He was telling the truth—he did love her, but it wasn’t the kind of love two people built a life on. And whether or not he wanted to admit it, he knew it.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek, giving him a sad smile. “I have to go.”
This time when she brushed past him on her way out the door, he let her go.
Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) Page 13