by Trisha Wolfe
Four FBI agents are aboard the vessel now.
Quinn taps at his earpiece. “There’s movement on The Countess. Proctor’s going in with the first group.” He glances over his shoulder. “When we move in, watch your six.”
I nod. I want to be the one to look Simon in his eyes when he sees his end coming. When the knowledge that he won’t ever advance to “master” first lights his eyes. But I’ll settle for looking into them during the aftermath.
I just hope they don’t have to kill him before I get that chance.
A crackle sounds through my own earpiece, and my muscles tense, my grip on my gun tightens. Quinn is first in command for our small group of three. Just me, Quinn, and Carson. I could almost laugh that it’s come down to this—stuck between two men that only a week ago, I almost pegged for accomplices.
Carson and Quinn would’ve made an interesting team—but truthfully, I’m not sure who would be the master, and who would be the apprentice. They’re both too stubborn to take clear directives from the other. Though I give Carson credit, he does try awfully hard to impress Quinn.
My train of thought stops suddenly as a shout comes through my feed. Hands up! Hands up! Then the rest happens too quickly for me to distinguish.
A shot rings out…my heart slams against my chest, my foot digs into the earth…and the order to move in sounds through the earpiece. Quinn throws his hand forward, ordering us to advance.
The earth moves up and down in my vision. The thud of footfalls bounces heavy in my ears. An out-of-body euphoria washes over me. And for one, clear second, I take notice of the moonlit river. The reflection of the luminescent orb shimmering and reflecting off tranquil waters.
The Countess is a large sailboat. I note this also, along with the rocking of the boat. Something this massive shouldn’t stir so easily as we board the vessel.
“Fall back!” Proctor stands with his gun hiked to his shoulder, giving orders. “The suspect is down. Group two, search the rest of the cabin. Apprehend anyone else on this vessel.”
I hear the order. I’m following Quinn’s lead as he heads below into the hull, Carson right behind me. But my eyes are taking in everything—trying to understand why they haven’t seen Avery yet.
“Quinn—”
“We’ll find her,” he says.
The deeper we go into the cabin, the darker it becomes. The thicker the air settles around us. It’s like going underground, the feel of entering a tomb. A coldness bites into my skin, and I clamp both hands around my SIG for comfort.
The noise above becomes a muffled annoyance. I realize the walls are covered with padding. This is familiar; my abductor did the same to his basement. As we descend, the steps creaking beneath our feet, one sound—one beautiful sound—catches my ears.
A whimper.
It’s the sound of terror—but it’s lovely. It’s the sound I made when Jackson Randall Lovett was shot to death beside me, and I looked into the beams of the flashlights, right into the barrels of the guns. And then into the eyes of the FBI agents.
Avery is making that sound now.
“Clear the room,” Quinn orders. “Cover everywhere.”
It’s an impossible directive to follow when all I want to do is rush to Avery—but this time, I follow the order. Enough rules have been broken. I need to stay the course to make sure she survives this.
“Clear!” Carson shouts.
“Clear here, too,” Quinn says from the corner of the dungeon.
Because that’s what this is. A verified hell in the belly of a ship.
I finish checking my corner, forcing my fingers to ease off the handle of my gun. “Clear.” Only I’m not so sure…
Along one wall, in beautiful script: She walks in beauty, like the night…
And on the opposite wall: Her walls talk…
The next wall displays another verse from the dreaded poem: Had half impaired the nameless grace… Which waves in every raven tress
And above Avery, written in perfect penmanship: We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
The final clue—a quote from Ernest Hemmingway. How poetic.
I release a lengthy breath and meet Quinn’s eyes. He nods once, giving me permission, and I don’t hesitate. I holster my gun and drop down beside Avery.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. My arms link her bare shoulders. The red dress has been mutilated. I can feel the welts covering her skin against my arms. Her body shakes, tremors and I’m sure sheer exhaustion wracking her limbs. “Shh…” I soothe. “Avery, it’s going to be okay.”
I continue to repeat reassurances to her as the EMTs enter the hull. Carson has located bolt cutters and proceeds to cut her chains away at the go-ahead from one of the EMTs.
Her body is broken. Her mind isn’t fairing any better. Her once vibrant brown irises are glazed and refuse to make contact with mine. She hasn’t looked up from the floor once to acknowledge anyone. She’s been staring at the ground for so long, beaten and trained to stare at it—and she’s in shock.
But she’s alive.
This is not her fairytale ending.
She won’t spring to her feet and whoop for joy to her saviors, like they do in the movies. She won’t even cry tears of relief. She will tremble and puke and roil in the sickness until the medics clear her to be given a sedative where she can sleep off the shock.
For once, I wish she could experience just one more thing of mine. I wish he was killed right before her. I fear she will never be able to go into a dark room, or turn off the lights in her lab to inspect evidence, without the fear of him finding her again.
And so that’s what I offer her.
As I follow the EMTs escorting Avery toward the deck level of the boat, I clasp her hand, squeeze tightly until her head whips around and her eyes finally see—really see—mine.
Against protocol, I pull her away and toward the dead man being photographed on the ship’s floor. “Look at him,” I say to her as I kneel down and tear his mask away. “Imprint him into your memory.”
For just a moment, as her gaze takes in his limp body, her shivers subside. Then, turning to me, she says, “Thank you.”
* * *
It’s past midnight, and the hospital is still catering to the ACPD. Lukewarm coffee and donuts have been brought in by the unis. Prayers have been uttered in the hallways. Nurses offer weak but reassuring smiles to the cops littering the waiting room.
Avery deserves all the encouragement. No one has been able to see her, which is for the best. She’s not ready. But she will appreciate so many of her fellow crime fighters offering their support. When she’s ready.
I sit with my back up against the cool wall, savoring the quiet. In this wing of the hospital, it’s slow and dim. An overhead light is blown, and my eyes desperately need a break from the fluorescents.
I don’t know when I shut my eyes, but they pop open at the feel of a cup slipping between my hands. It’s warm…much warmer than the weak coffee I had earlier. I take a sip. “Thanks.”
Quinn slips down on the floor beside me. “I almost didn’t wake you, but you looked too comfortable.”
I smile. “That’s a bad thing, apparently.”
“Terrible.” He brings his own coffee up and takes a long sip. “So they found my tooth in Simon’s pocket.”
“You going to get it back?”
“Funny.” He glances at me. “Obviously, it’s going into an evidence locker where it will rot.”
I shrug against the wall. “Too bad. We could’ve given it a proper burial. I know how you’ll miss it.”
“Smart ass.”
Silence settles between us as we drink our coffee. As the uncomfort of it stretches out, my chest tightens. “I need to see my mother, and Colton…before you bring me in,” I say, breaking the quiet.
He runs his palms along his slacks, wiping away the creases. Even now, he has to keep things in order. “I’ve made a decision on that,” he says, continuing t
o rub at nonexistent wrinkles. “I just came from my debriefing. Proctor had a pile of paperwork for me.”
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 t
his 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.