Split Decisions: A Southern Romantic-Suspense Novel - Charlotte - Book Two

by Carmen DeSousa

  She nodded, exhaling softly. “I’m fine, Jordan. It was wonderful.”

  “It was wonderful,” he agreed bitterly. “But then you have a breakdown afterward. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  She shook her head, biting her lip.

  “We’re going to the doctor tomorrow.”

  “Give me a few days… I swear I’ll be back to normal. I know it’s just PMS.”

  Jordan exhaled sharply. “You can’t pass this off as PMS. Something deeper is going on, and if you say you don’t know what it is, then we need help.”

  “Okay,” she conceded. “If I don’t feel better by tomorrow, I’ll call.”

  “No,” he disagreed in a cool manner. “You’ll make an appointment tomorrow. This has been going on too long.”

  He moved toward her, pulling her into an embrace. “Will you cry if I hold ya?”

  She sniffed. “I hope not. It sure feels good.”

  “It’s supposed to feel good, Jaynee. It’s as if you’re feeling guilty for being happy. What’s wrong with happily ever after, love?”

  She shook her head against his chest. “I am happy, and I do love you, Jordan, something fierce. I always have, and I always will.”

  “Then that’s all that matters. We’ll figure out what’s wrong.” He kissed the top of her head, breathing in deeply then exhaled. “I love you too.”

  ***

  Jordan couldn’t sleep. He just stretched out with Jaynee in his arms, utterly confused. It was as if she’d come back from New York as a different person. She’d been gloomy before she’d left, but he had thought she was simply lonely with the kids going back to school. She’d filled her life taking care of him and their four children.

  Their relationship had begun as a whirlwind romance. From the moment their eyes had met, he’d been thunderstruck. She’d led a tragic life before they’d met, and he’d taken her away from all of it, intent on keeping her safe, and loving her the way she’d deserved. Over the years, their love had grown deeper, though, until they were literally one soul. There was no separation; one could not hurt without the other feeling it.

  They’d only disagreed on two things during their marriage, him being a cop and her not wanting to have children until she graduated, which was about five years after they’d gotten married. But then, she’d blessed him with four children.

  He’d failed horribly at one of the two things he’d promised. He’d failed to protect her, by the hand of his own brother-in-law, to make things worse. After a gunshot to the head, she’d been in a coma and nearly died. And all the while, he’d been thinking and accusing her of having an affair, when she’d merely been trying to surprise him with the best gift ever. She’d been trying to get pregnant and therefore had been trying not to have sex for two months after quitting the pill.

  And now, here he was again, accusing her of having an affair. What in the world was wrong with him? She hadn’t felt good. She’d tried to make him understand, and he’d pushed her, accused her, and seduced her until she gave in to his wants and needs.

  Then she’d cried, and he accused her of having an affair instead of wondering if he’d hurt her emotionally. He was a moron. He wanted to wake her up and apologize this very instant, but he thought better of it. It wouldn’t help her; it would only serve to make him feel better. He deserved a night of anguish after what he’d put her through.

  It was clear in her eyes she loved him; there was no way she could ever disguise her feelings. In fact, she regarded him as if she’d missed him for years, not days.

  Still, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get over her peculiar actions. She’d been forgetting little things like the restaurant, prayers, where they sat, and countless other things in the last couple of days.

  The chardonnay had really thrown him; she hadn’t had a drink since before she was pregnant with Johanna and Justin. He didn’t drink, a personal choice, but he’d never asked her not to drink; she just didn’t. So for her to order a drink at lunch after almost thirteen years had really confused him.

  She hadn’t had a clue what he was talking about when he mentioned Bob… Who names an alarm clock? Jaynee, that’s who, so she could yell at it in the morning. But how could she forget naming it? She’d had the clock for years. They’d been sitting in the same chairs at the dining room table for eighteen years, him at the end and her to his left, so she could see out the window, she’d said, and had easy access to get back up if she needed something from the kitchen. But tonight she’d sat on his right.

  The strangest thing was…as much as she’d forgotten about recent things, she seemed to be recalling all of the little things from when they’d first met. They joked about his forgetfulness all the time. He claimed he was getting Alzheimer’s disease, but suddenly he was concerned that maybe she really was. He would have to make sure she got to the doctor tomorrow, even if he took her himself.

  Chapter Twenty

  (Jaynee)

  Corey sat outside Caycee’s apartment building a little further down the street and from the opposite direction, hoping whoever had called wouldn’t notice him again.

  Not that he was doing anything wrong…it just wouldn’t look good if the same cop decided to call his precinct. He’d been a cop for years in L.A. before he’d met Caycee. He’d been the one to investigate when she was receiving threatening letters from a deranged fan who was stalking her. The perp had even broken into her house on several occasions, stealing personal effects.

  At first, he’d only been able to speak with her manager, Ben, but after much persuasion, he finally arranged a meeting with Caycee. From their first meeting, she’d captivated him. He wasn’t sure what it was…love, desire, or the overwhelming need to protect her. Maybe all three rolled into one. He couldn’t very well approach her while investigating her case, so he’d waited until after he arrested the loser. It was his way of showing her how much he cared, laying his kill before her, so to speak, as any good suitor would do to earn her affections.

  She’d been friendly when he approached her the first time after he closed the case. In fact, she’d been forthcoming and gracious. She’d explained that she’d been seeing someone for some time and that she was flattered.

  He’d quickly caught on that Ben was that someone. He was disappointed to discover she would have an affair with a married man, but Ben wasn’t a bad guy. He was an idiot, though. His only claim to fame was Caycee, and if it hadn’t been for her kind heart, she would have dropped him as a manager years ago.

  Having tired of L.A. and wanting a change, Corey had followed her to New York. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. He’d wanted to approach her several times personally, but never had the nerve when he saw she was out looking again. So he played the game like everyone else, hoping he’d catch her eye one day.

  Her car was in the exact same spot as yesterday. She hadn’t gone anywhere all day it appeared, and she’d yet to leave the house this evening. It was unusual behavior for Caycee; he’d been safeguarding her for the last year. The only nights he missed were the nights he was on call and actually had to work. A rare occurrence, his sergeant tended to hoard all the overtime.

  It was far later than she’d ever left, and he hadn’t even seen the pizza deliveryman. The events of last night now appeared to be suspicious.

  Exiting his car, he approached her building. A dangerous move, he knew, if she saw him at her apartment and recognized him, it would appear he was stalking her. Which, as much as he wanted to believe he wasn’t, he knew without a doubt he was. It wouldn’t matter that the only reason he stalked her was to safeguard her, to protect her, to hope that one day she would notice him and like what she saw. He was still a stalker and any jury would see it that way.

  He ascended the stairs to her floor; there was less chance of someone noticing him in the stairwell. He walked down the hall cautiously, fearful she would step out of her apartment at any second. If she did, he could say he was looking for a friend and then ac
t surprised as he recognized her.

  She would remember and thank him for protecting her, maybe even invite him in for a drink, knowing he was a cop. He laughed at his ridiculous fantasy. He really needed to get a life; he was forty-five years old for Pete’s sake. It’s not as if he didn’t date…he did. He just rarely went out with a woman more than a few times.

  He stood outside her door for several seconds, simply listening. No sound, no music, no television. Her apartment was entirely void of normal life for nine in the evening. Making his decision, he filled his lungs with oxygen. He’d knock, if she answered, he’d feign wrong address and leave…unless of course she recognized him and invited him in. The idea encouraged him, and his heart started pounding rapidly at the notion.

  “Okay, deep breaths, relax. She’s just a woman,” he mumbled quietly. Like no other woman, he thought breathlessly, but she was merely a woman. He’d never had trouble dating or asking women out. Why did he have such trouble with Caycee? His problem was finding one to measure up to Caycee. He’d managed a few relationships over the years, but each one had faltered because of his lack of enthusiasm and willingness to put forth any effort. As strange as it sounded, even to him, he was in love with Caycee, and the women he’d dated could always sense his mind was elsewhere. He’d blamed it on the job, which was true, but he knew for Caycee, he’d even walk away from his career.

  He rapped his knuckles on the door, standing in front of the peephole, so she could see he wasn’t a threat. He knew he didn’t look suspicious; he was the exact type she always dated. With the exception of her manager, he never quite understood their relationship. Ben was nothing like the others.

  His heart thrummed an uneven beat. This was it…the chance he’d waited for, the risk he hadn’t taken in years.

  He waited a few seconds, then knocked again, still nothing. He exhaled loudly. Where would she have gone? She hadn’t left the building and her car hadn’t moved. Out of some deep-seated need, he reached for the door handle. It turned lightly in his hand; perhaps she’d only used the deadbolt and didn’t lock the actual doorknob.

  With a slight push, the door opened. Oh crap, he thought, please, God, no. What had Ben done? Please, God, don’t let me find her in here dead, he prayed. He’d seen this too many times as a homicide detective.

  He shouldn’t even be here. Oh no, the cop last night, there would be a record of him outside her building and now he was in her apartment. He walked swiftly through her apartment. Nothing appeared out of order, no signs of a struggle, but she was clearly not home.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, then realized she hadn’t left the building. He inspected the house for more information on her whereabouts. An oversized black leather contraption with chrome hardware sat perched on the counter. Her purse, he assumed.

  Using his pen, he pushed back at the edges. A long black wallet and keys to her Mercedes rested inside, definitely her purse. No phone, though. Caycee never went anywhere without her iPhone; she was always tapping away on the thing. But…women also didn’t leave the house without their purse.

  He hadn’t been paying attention when the cop came to his window yesterday. Ben—or someone else—could have dragged her out of the building. He couldn’t think what to do. Dare he call it in? What was he going to say? I’ve been watching this woman and all of a sudden she’s not where she usually is at this time. That would go over well.

  He had a better idea.

  After wiping off the doorknob, he returned to his vehicle and drove to the opposite side of town. He found a convenience store that didn’t have any security cameras and used a napkin to pick up the phone then another to cover the mouthpiece.

  He spoke low and steady, using his best Californian lisp when the 911 operator picked up. He lied marginally, explaining he’d seen someone drag a woman out of her apartment yesterday evening. He told the dispatcher that he’d been afraid, but now he just wanted the police to check it out. He gave the address of the building and her apartment number and hung up. Next, he called the local news. Even if the police weren’t interested…the news was always looking for anything involving a celebrity.

  Bad thing was…he couldn’t get involved. If they pieced together the call about him at her building, along with the fact that he’d been the investigating officer on a stalking case years ago, it would make him look suspicious. He headed back to their side of town and walked into their favorite restaurant, hoping he was wrong and she’d be waiting for him. She wasn’t.

  ***

  Jaynee sunk back onto the mattress, defeated. She’d tried to move the bed around to the window to look out, but it was entirely too heavy. All she’d done was manage to bruise her wrist. It really didn’t even matter. The window was nothing more than a slit, and it was too high up on the wall for her to reach. It must be an old cabin, back when people used smaller windows for lower electricity bills.

  She allowed herself to cry softly over her pathetic decisions the last few weeks. She should be going to bed with Jordan about now, instead of going to sleep in the same clothes for the second night in a row with nothing to eat but crackers and water. How long would it take Caycee to get concerned? Would she wait until she didn’t show up on Saturday?

  Caycee had to have called to ask some question of her circumstances. What would she think when she didn’t reply? Would she think something had gone wrong, or would she assume she was out on the town enjoying her freedom?

  If she tried to call and received no answer, how long would she wait before she sent out the cavalry? Would she even care? Then a thought occurred to her. Would she be happy to have her out of the way? Would she assume Jaynee’s life? Could she have engineered all of this? She certainly had the wherewithal to arrange her kidnapping. She shook her head as she dispelled the thought… Caycee couldn’t hurt her. It would be like killing herself.

  ***

  Corey ate his dinner quickly, barely tasting the hundred-dollar meal. Caycee had not shown, but then again, he knew she wouldn’t. Not tonight. He got back in his truck, hoping there would be detectives at her building by now.

  He drove slowly as he approached her building; the sight of flashing blue lights made him smile. The dispatcher had actually heeded his anonymous call and had sent uniformed officers. He’d made the correct decision to call it in as if he’d actually seen it happen. If he’d just reported her missing, it might have taken days for them to respond.

  Only problem, now they would spend valuable man-hours searching for the witness instead of tracking down the assailant. Detectives would spend days questioning tenants who hadn’t seen anything. Then they would ask if they knew if she had any regular friends. Next would be her local hangouts. No one would know anything. People didn’t pay attention to the comings and goings of their neighbors in New York. And Caycee was a late riser and stayed out most nights past midnight. Most of her neighbors were off to work before she awoke and sound asleep by the time she returned home.

  The detectives’ only break would be if they discovered that she went to the same restaurant almost every night. As important information as that was in the case, Corey could not phone it in as an anonymous tip, since he also dined at the restaurant almost every night and that cop had called in his name outside her residence.

  His only escape if this got close to him would be if they didn’t release the location of the 911 call, because then he could explain he was the one who’d reported her abduction. It was a feeble hope, and it wouldn’t hold much water to exonerate him, but it was all he had.

  His next move needed to be Ben. He needed to get them to investigate her manager; he was the prime suspect in his eyes.

  ***

  Jaynee awoke the next morning to the sound of a door opening at the other end of the house. At least her captor was punctual. Her bladder felt as if it would burst. She was doing fine until she knew it was time, and then her body reacted wildly to the thought of relieving itself. It was like when she was driving across town, she was fine,
but the moment she pulled into her driveway, she felt as though she couldn’t make it to the downstairs bath. Okay, she was losing her mind, what a thing to think about.

  She waited patiently, her eyes riveted on the door. Finally, it opened. The shadow threw her the key, taking its customary spot against the wall, revealing nothing.

  Jaynee quickly unlatched the metal from her wrist, fleeing to the bathroom. “Thank you,” she called from the other side of the door, hoping he would see her as grateful and not continue holding her with no explanation. She washed her face and tried to clean the rest of her body; she was definitely beginning to smell. “I’m trying to clean myself up a little. I’ll be right out.” She’d read somewhere that the more human you made yourself, the less likely your captor was of killing you, but then again, it depended on the motive and the assailant. This person hadn’t asked or taken anything from her. He hadn’t tried to rape her or make her write a book. Of course, he didn’t know her as a writer; he thought she was a singer, and he hadn’t asked her to sing or write him a song, she amended wryly in her mind. Maybe she was crazy. She was having conversations with herself in her own mind.

  She stepped out of the bathroom, eyeing the person carefully. He was standing against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, legs crossed, with one foot resting on his toes. It seemed like an awfully casual pose.

  She walked to the other side of the bed and sat. She rubbed her wrist instead of putting the cuffs on immediately. The man lifted his head in a motion that said without words, Go ahead; put them on. He didn’t have the gun trained on her, and she questioned her chances of jumping over the bed and accosting him before he had an opportunity to turn the gun on her.

  Unfortunately, she had to admit her odds weren’t good. He was laxer than he’d been the first day, but she was weaker. It had been almost sixty hours and all she’d eaten were two packets of crackers. Jordan always thought she worried about her weight too much. He insisted that, if anything, she could gain a few pounds. She must have lost several by now.