by Lisa Jackson
He’d always woken up hot, horny, and thankful that Kristen was beside him, sleeping soundly.
So why had he let it slip away? Why let the nightmares of Jake Marcott push him further from her? When had his work, his goddamned work, become more important than his wife and daughter?
Never.
They had just slowly grown apart and they’d let it go too far until questions, doubts, and fears had overtaken love and trust.
But no more.
Whether Kristen liked it or not, he was back. And horny as hell.
So the husband is there.
That was an unexpected wrinkle.
The killer, having parked two streets over, had carefully slunk through the shadows of the tall firs that partially covered the hillsides of this sparsely occupied neighborhood. With houses on partial acres, hidden away, and the few houses close to the road built on steep, forested hillsides, traffic had been light, nearly nonexistent, as she’d neared the Delmonico home at the end of the dead-end street. She’d had to hide only twice when a car had passed.
Now, across the street as she viewed Kristen’s home, the killer stared at the big black pickup belonging to Ross Delmonico. She didn’t like the fact that Delmonico was in the picture again. He could screw up her plans. Big time. And she had waited so long. So damned long.
Don’t panic.
Stay the course.
You’ve come too far to let this little snag affect you.
She let out her breath, the warm air from her lungs expelling in a streaming fog as it hit the cold night.
Staring at the house, she reached into her pocket, her fingers closing over the key deep inside, a key she’d made from the one Kristen had hidden on a nail tucked under the eaves of the porch, the one she left for the kid who was always forgetting hers.
They’d never known it was missing. The killer had located it one morning after everyone had left for the day and put it back it before anyone had returned. Easy deal. She’d done the same with all the houses she’d needed to enter. Most people weren’t that clever when hiding their spare.
Slowly, caressingly, she rubbed her thumb and index finger over the cold metal, pressing hard over the unique, sharp little teeth that were fashioned and cut to ensure the locks on Kristen Daniels’s doors would open.
But the husband was a problem.
As was the kid.
Not insurmountable. You can handle them. You just have to be careful and wait for the precise moment to strike. You can do it. You won’t fail.
Through the slats of the blinds, she saw a fire glowing, warm and bright, flickering flames reflecting on the windows, smoke curling into the thick, dark night. Every once in a while she’d catch a glimpse of a silhouette moving in front of the window and her gut would tighten.
Don’t let anyone see you, she reminded herself.
What the hell was the husband doing there?
The light in Kristen’s bedroom snapped on, and though the killer could not see through the closed shutters, she imagined what was happening in that room. With the husband. She imagined the mating, that big man mounting Kristen in the missionary position, or maybe from behind. He would be grunting in pleasure, she gasping, maybe holding on to the rails of her headboard, and there would be the slap, slap, slap of flesh meeting flesh, hotter and faster as the smell of sweat and sex overcame the scents of candles and fire.
Her lower abdomen tightened.
And need started to pulse through her. Did she dare peek through the blinds to watch their rutting? Spy Kristen in the throes of passion, knowing she would be pretending the man thrusting himself into her, making her pant and her blood run like lava, wasn’t Ross Delmonico at all, but Jake Marcott?
“Whore,” the killer whispered. They were all whores. For Jake.
Her jaw was so tight it hurt.
Tears burned behind her eyes.
Bile rose up her throat.
She clasped the key so hard it cut through her skin, and she might not have noticed the pain except a dog started barking, breaking into her obsessive fantasy.
A big dog, from the sounds of it.
Not a little yapper.
And not penned.
Wrenching her gaze from the house, she narrowed her eyes into the frigid darkness and focused down the hill toward the corner where the main road split and this offshoot continued up the hill. There was only one streetlight between Kristen’s house and that fork.
She saw the bobbing beam of a flashlight.
Shit!
Her heart nearly stopped.
Someone was walking their damned dog!
Blocking her way out.
Her ears strained and she heard the pound of footsteps.
She racewalked in the other direction, toward the dead end, where no house could be built as the lot was essentially little more than a sheer cliff.
She had to get away before she was seen!
Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! A brisk tempo of running shoes hitting pavement.
Oh, hell, the guy wasn’t walking his dog. He was running. Even though it was almost midnight. The runner and dog reached the lamp post with its eerie pool of bluish light. The man wasn’t all that big, but the beast—some kind of Doberman/Rottweiler mix—was huge. Massive. Drooling.
Shit!
The killer took one final glance at Kristen’s house and froze.
There, staring straight at her, peering through the damned bedroom window, was Kristen Daniels Delmonico.
The bitch.
Chapter 10
Kristen’s hand stopped in midair. The blind she had been adjusting was partially open as she squinted through the window past the shrubbery of her yard, and at the far side of the street she saw movement. A blur.
She sucked in her breath.
What was it?
Was it her imagination, or was someone standing beneath the drooping boughs of the ancient Douglas fir trees that stood like giant sentinels in the vacant lot?
You’re seeing things, she told herself, but her heart was jackhammering, her breath caught in her lungs. Don’t do this, Kristen. Don’t let your imagination run away with you. It’s probably just a deer—or shadows.
Another movement outside. A dark figure starting to make tracks.
“Oh, God.” She switched off the bedside lamp, causing the room to go dark, cutting the reflection and allowing her eyes to adjust so she could see more clearly.
There it was again, that murky blur.
Someone running or walking quickly toward the dead end.
Without thinking, Kristen flew out of the bedroom, down the hallway to the kitchen.
Ross was lying on the couch.
“Someone’s outside,” she said, searching in the drawer for her flashlight. “Across the street. Watching the place. They took off toward the end of the street when they saw me looking outside.”
“What?” He was instantly up, reaching for his shoes. “What do you mean? Who?”
“I don’t know. Just that someone’s out there. Someone who shouldn’t be,” she said, and couldn’t keep the undercurrent of panic from her voice.
“Then stay inside. I’ll check it out.” He was halfway to the kitchen.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No way.” His voice was firm. “It’s probably nothing, but on the off chance it’s trouble, you stay with Lissa. I’ll yell if I need you to call 911.”
“No, Ross, I’ve got to show you where I saw—”
He grabbed her by the arms. “Stop it! I’m going out there. You’re staying here. With our daughter. End of story!” He scooped the kitchen phone’s handset from its cradle and slapped it into her hand. “If I need help, I’ll yell. Lock the door behind me.” He was outside, letting in a wave of wintry air before she could say another word. She twisted the dead bolt and stared through the kitchen window toward the street, but Ross had already disappeared into the shadows.
Lissa’s door opened and she stepped into the hallway. “What’s going
on? You were shouting. Is…is Dad still here?” Wearing faded jeans and a short T-shirt, she looked about five years younger than her age. Kristen couldn’t resist hugging her close, startling her.
“Yes, Lissa, your father’s here, and he’s going to stay overnight.” Her daughter opened her mouth as if to protest, but Kristen cut her off. “It’s okay. In fact, it’s a good thing, so please do not, I mean, do not give me one second’s grief about it.”
“Geez,” Lissa said, but she didn’t argue further as she scanned the kitchen and family room. “So, what’s going on? Where’s Dad now?”
“Outside. I thought I saw someone across the street and…well, Dad’s checking it out.”
“You saw someone doing what?”
“I don’t know. Lurking.”
“Oh.” Lissa hesitated, ran a hand through her hair, then admitted, “It was probably Zeke.”
“Zeke?”
Gnawing on a corner of her lip, Lissa shook her head as if silently arguing with herself.
“Melissa?”
“I, um, sorta told him to come over.”
“But…it’s after midnight. And why wouldn’t he just come in the door and—” The light in her mind suddenly dawned, with a painful, intense brilliance she’d tried to ignore. “You were going to sneak him into the house?”
Lissa lifted a shoulder. As if it were no big deal. “Just for a little while. We were just going to hang out.”
“Melissa Renee Delmonico, that is the absolute worst idea I’ve ever heard of! You can’t sneak Zeke or any boy, or anyone for that matter, into the house. You know that.”
For once Lissa didn’t roll her eyes, just stared at the door as Ross returned. Alone. He snapped off the flashlight. His face was set and hard, the lines near the sides of his mouth more pronounced.
“Zeke’s not with you?” Kristen asked.
“No…why would he be? The only person outside was a guy jogging with his dog. No one else.”
“A jogger?” No way!
“With a flashlight and dog. A big dog.”
Kristen shook her head. “The person I saw didn’t have a flashlight. I’m telling you”—she slid a glance at her daughter, and though she didn’t want to frighten Lissa, she figured everyone in the family needed to know what they were dealing with—“someone was lurking outside, across the street. Not moving until they saw me looking through the blinds. This wasn’t a jogger or someone walking his dog.”
Ross’s eyes were dark, his expression even more severe. He set his flashlight on the kitchen counter, leaned a hip against the top of the cupboards, and folded his arms over his chest. His gaze was riveted on his daughter. “Why did you think it might be Zeke?”
Lissa blinked hard, then started to turn as if heading for her room.
“Hold it right there. Answer me. What’s going on?” Ross demanded.
Lissa’s shoulders stiffened. She sniffed loudly, then finally turned. Her lower lip began to quiver, though she fought breaking down completely. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on, Dad, and it’s all your fault. Zeke…Zeke doesn’t like it that you’re hanging out and…and I told him to come over. Yeah, that’s right, I know what time it is,” she added when Ross glanced at his watch. “Anyway, he was going to come in through my window and—”
“Wait! What?”
“I was going to sneak him in, but it doesn’t matter anyway because I guess he stood me up. Again.” She swiped the back of her hand under her nose and added acrimoniously, “Happy now?”
Before Ross could respond, Kristen said, “Don’t bother with the lecture. Melissa and I have just had it. She knows that she made a mistake, but”—she switched her attention to her daughter—“if this is the way he treats you—”
“Save it, Mom.” Lissa glared at her parents.
Ross said, “Call him.”
“What?”
The set of his jaw brooked no argument. “Find out if Zeke was here. Maybe your mom and I scared him off.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Call that little creep right now, or I will.”
“Damn it, Dad, don’t do this!”
“Now,” he ordered, though his voice wasn’t quite so harsh.
She hesitated, then whipped her phone from a pocket of her jeans. Turning her back to her parents, she hit speed dial, and standing in the hallway, had a quick call in hushed, mumbled tones. Her small shoulders were slumped, her head cocked, one shoulder braced on the wall.
“No one was out there, Kris,” Ross said as Lissa finished her short conversation and snapped her phone shut. When she turned to face them again, she was fighting tears. “It wasn’t him, okay?” She swiped at her red eyes and sniffed loudly.
“You’re sure?”
She nodded, her jaw sliding to one side. Hesitating, she then cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “I don’t think he’d bring someone else over here. He’s with Tara O’Riley. I heard her laughing.”
“Oh, honey.” Kristen’s heart cracked for her daughter.
“It’s okay,” Lissa said. “He’s a jerk.”
Ross stepped right into it. “You could do better anyway.”
“Then why’s he with Tara?” she spat, bristling as she threw her hands into the air. “What do you care, anyway?”
“Lissa,” Kristen warned, but her daughter’s volatile emotions erupted.
All her anger and shame had shifted to her father. “Mom says you’re moving back in. What’s up with that?”
“I said he was spending the night. That’s different from moving back,” Kristen reaffirmed.
“So this is just temporary?” Lissa asked, a trace of sarcasm still evident in her voice. “You move in, you move out, you move in again. Just like some kind of yo-yo dad. So who are you to give me any kind of advice?”
Kristen expected Ross to come unglued. To argue. To point out the difficulties of an adult relationship, to explain why both he and she had needed their space to sort things through. Instead his jaw worked, he glanced down at the floor for a second, rammed his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, then nodded to himself before looking up and meeting his daughter’s angry, red, accusing gaze. His voice, when he spoke, was softer. More thoughtful. “I can’t give you advice. You’re right, Lissa.”
There was a beat of uncertain, uncomfortable silence when only the slow sizzle of the fire and quiet rumble of the refrigerator could be heard.
“But I am moving back in,” he said, holding Kristen’s gaze. “For good.”
Chapter 11
Over the next few days Kristen learned how serious Ross had been. She hadn’t argued with him when he’d made his proclamation, because a part of her was thrilled to have him back. She wanted to give their marriage one more chance.
But she’d laid down some rules. Ross used the guest bedroom as his office and sleeping quarters for now. They chose a family counselor who would work with them as a couple, as well as with Lissa, to help them repair the rifts in their shattered little family. They both agreed to the changes, though Lissa dragged her heels to the first counseling session and thought the whole idea was “beyond lame.”
But it was a step forward…a step in the right direction.
As for the reunion for St. Elizabeth’s, Kristen did call the police about the tape and photo and a detective came by the office and took her statement, along with the “evidence.” Considering the more deadly, higher-profile crimes that were occurring in the city, Kristen didn’t hold out much hope that anything momentous would come of the investigation.
She managed to write a letter to the alumnae and stuff and seal all of the envelopes. Then, unfortunately, because of deadlines at work and her own complicated family situation, she forgot to take the damned things to the post office. They sat ready to be mailed on the kitchen table for two days before she finally remembered to haul them to the post office a week after the reunion meeting. Only when Ross had remarked about them and actually offered to take them himself did she
realize they weren’t already in the post.
Ross was being on his best “family-comes-first” behavior, and though Kristen wanted to trust him, she was holding back. Everything was much too fragile. She thanked him for his offer but she dropped off the envelopes on her way to work the following morning, then caught up with Sabrina, who had decided, against her better judgment, to help her husband Gerard and Chad Belmont with the Western Catholic reunion that was the same weekend and dovetailing into the St. Elizabeth’s festivities.
“So I heard about the weird tape you got and that creepy picture,” Sabrina said, shuddering as she blew across the top of her caramel/mocha-nonfat-decaf-with-light-whipped cream latte she was sipping. She and Kristen were taking a break at the local coffee shop, seated inside the windows, watching clouds roll over the sky and pedestrians scurry past as the first few drops of rain began to splatter against the sidewalk. With a great rumble, a TriMet bus pulled out of the bus stop and eased into traffic heading east, toward the gray waters of the Willamette River and the Hawthorne Bridge.
“Did you talk to the police?”
“Mmm, but so far, they haven’t found anything.”
“It would be a great story for the Clarion. You could bring up Jake Marcott’s murder and then tell what happened to you. Get a little press and a nice byline.” She was only half kidding.
“No, thanks. The publicity just might be what whoever did this wants. It could make him frantic for more and more, and he could up the ante.”
“Or she.”
“Or she,” Kristen agreed as they carried the rest of their drinks back to the office. Kristen finished a piece on school funding or lack of it, and near five, she made a phone call to Alabama—one she’d been putting off—where it was almost eight in the evening.
A woman picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Rachel?” Kristen asked. “This is Kristen. Kristen Delmonico, but it was Daniels. From St. Elizabeth’s.”
“Kris? Daniels?” Rachel replied, clearly surprised. “Hi. It’s been years…Oh, I get it, you’re in charge of the reunion, aren’t you?” She laughed, and it was a sound that Kristen remembered well, one that caused a pang of regret to cut through her. How had she let so many years pass without trying to connect with her old friend? “Listen, if you’re trying to get me involved, forget it. You got drafted for the job, not this girl.” Again the soft laughter.