Black at Heart

by Leslie Parrish

  This type of hotel didn't have regular maid service, changing the beds only between guests-if then-and giving out towels at the front desk. There were no magnetic key cards, never any security cameras, no curious neighbors. Not in establishments like this, which dotted back roads and rented rooms by the hour to cheating couples having clandestine affairs, or by the month to newly released felons with nowhere else to go. The unsub would have parked off-site and walked in through the woods dotting the perimeter, waiting for the prey. Leaving something in sight to draw his victim deeper into the room-a toy, a doll?-he'd have waited behind the door for Fuller to walk all the way inside, presenting his vulnerable back for the ax.

  It all played out in his mind, a scenario that had become familiar in the past several weeks, since he'd first read about the New Jersey case and gone up to talk to the investigating officers. The FBI Cyber Action Team he ran was tasked to solve Internet-related murders, so the case had been a natural one to cross his desk. The first victim had, after all, been lured over the Internet by an unsub he had met in an anonymous child-porn chat room.

  Yet something about it had stood out since the first moment he'd read the file. Had made him keep that file close to his chest, go up, and poke around on his own.

  It had been the name of the child the victim had been going to meet: Zach. Cute little seven-year-old Zach, according to the e-mails the victim had exchanged with his killer. That popular name shouldn't have aroused his suspicion, but it did, some sixth sense telling him this needed his personal attention.

  Then came the second case, in Virginia. With it, a second name that was all too familiar.

  Laura.

  Normal names. Nothing unusual about them and they should have had no significance to the murders. Because there never had been a child, male or female, waiting in one of those hotel rooms. They were phantoms used to draw predators in for their own executions.

  But those names had meant something to him.

  Zach and Laura.

  The coincidence had struck him. Just as striking had been the flowers, the lilies. The first a calla lily, the second the Easter one. But this, the tiger lily, was even more important. More telling.

  Tiger Lily. The name she used on that last case before everything went so horribly wrong.

  Damn. This was really happening. And he really was going to have to do something about it. Starting with talking to Brandon Cole about what had gone on here. Brandon, more than anyone, would be stunned by the significance of the type of lily their unsub had left behind this time. You re the one who started calling her Tiger Lily, aren't you?

  "I should have left you out of it," he muttered, ignoring the curious glance from the CSI. Wyatt regretted bringing Brandon any further into this. It could be explosive-could be the end of both of their careers- and he hoped like hell that if he went down, he didn't bring the younger man with him.

  He'd just needed a second opinion, needed to know if he was crazy for reading something into the types of flower, into the children's names. Brandon had acknowledged the possible significance. But there was no possible about it anymore. Not in Wyatt's mind. The names, the flower, the victims, the motivation, the fury-all were too specific.

  Other than the two of them, no one else knew about his investigation. None of the special agents or IT specialists who reported to him. So much for the unity of the team, the loyalty, the camaraderie. Their ability to work in sync, to trust one another completely, had been of enormous benefit in solving the cases they'd worked so far. And now he was the one who'd veered off course, taking his youngest and most inexperienced agent with him.

  You had no choice. He's the only one who knows the truth.

  The truth about Lily Fletcher, one of his former team members.

  "Lily," he whispered.

  Lily, whose seven-year-old nephew, Zach, had been murdered by a sick monster.

  Lily, whose twin sister, Laura, had been crushed by the grief of it.

  Lily, who'd been taken by a vengeful deviant whose online name had been Lovesprettyboys-a monster who had liked to brutalize youngsters in cyber playgrounds.

  Lily. Sweet and bright and lost forever.

  Could this murder-all three flower murders-have something to do with what had happened to her?

  He didn't know. But he knew where to go to start looking for answers.

  Maine.

  Chapter 2

  How strange it sometimes seemed that she had ended up living at the beach.

  After what had happened, what she'd experienced, she should never have wanted to go near the ocean again. Memories of that night-feeling her life slip away on a cold, windswept shore, the crashing waves hiding her pathetic calls for help-should have made her want to be anyplace else. The salty air should have smelled like pain and tasted like death.

  Yet she loved it here. The churning of the Atlantic's waves in an endless rhythm soothed her soul in a way nothing else could. Therapy, meditation, medication, physical training, solitude-they'd all helped. But the tide was what lulled her to sleep each night. And every morning it was what called her forth into the sad world she still sometimes longed to escape.

  It could be because it was so steady, impervious to time or humanity. Nothing interfered with the crashing violence of the water against the rocks or the strong lapping of it slipping back out again. It was unstoppable, imperturbable. Strong and aloof. Much like she wanted to be.

  When offered this refuge on the rocky coast of Maine, she hadn't been thinking about the sound of the waves or the possibility of being strong and unstoppable. She'd thought only of escaping the darkness. Healing. Being away from the world. Not forever, just for as long as it took to reclaim herself.

  Now, though, the months had stretched on and she honestly didn't know how she would ever leave this place. The house hovering on a cliff high above the water didn't belong to her, yet it had become her home. Her sanctuary in the middle of an insane world where the raging currents could sweep those you loved in and out of your life with cold indifference.

  A parent. A sweet little boy. A much-loved sibling.

  Perhaps that was why she so enjoyed the sound of the surf from far below. Because it was a constant reminder that she was here, high above it and removed from it all. No one left to care about. No one whose loss could be the final blow that shattered her battered psyche.

  No one.

  Sitting on the terrace, spying on the rest of the world through her laptop, she wondered why she never felt lonely. She went down into town only once a week for supplies, nodding at the postal workers as she checked the always empty PO box. Or exchanging a quiet hello with the woman who ran the local general store that sold everything from apricot jam to weed whackers.

  She sensed they all wanted more-conversation, a chance to share juicy gossip. Perhaps even a moment to warn her about living in a house many locals seemed to fear. But she didn't give anyone the opportunity. She remained distant, always paying for her few purchases with cash, never trying to use a phony credit card, or, worse, a real one that could leave a paper trail. That was the extent of her involvement out there in the world.

  That world, however, did occasionally come here.

  She'd had a few regular visitors at first. Now, though, only two people ever climbed up the steep, winding steps that led from the driveway and detached garage to the house itself, which was practically an extension of the cliff. One was her self-defense trainer, a former army sergeant who came a couple of times a week and worked her until she was so exhausted, she sometimes actually slept without dreaming. A blessing. With his help, she had molded her body to match her spirit, making it hard, lean, and dangerous. She would never be anybody's victim again.

  As for the other occasional visitor-he came the second weekend of every month.

  "So what the hell are you doing here now, a week early?" she whispered as a familiar dark sedan parked behind her Jeep at the bottom of the hill, far below the patio.

  Completely
in tune to her surroundings, accustomed to the reassuring lull of the surf that was the constant sound track to her new life, she had immediately noticed a new, unexpected sound a few minutes ago. An engine.! A car. Coming up the long driveway.

  Her heart had begun to thud at the intrusion, but she hadn't panicked. Clicking a few keys on her keyboard, she had switched her laptop over to the surveillance system that monitored every square inch of this property. From the cameras mounted on either corner of the garage roof, she'd identified her visitor and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Now, though, she was no longer relieved. Instead, in the few seconds it had taken her to process Wyatt Black-stone's presence here on a sunny, breezy Thursday afternoon, nervous tension had begun to flood her.

  This change in routine wasn't like him. Not only utterly brilliant, Wyatt was also reliable and calm, as even and steady as those waves crashing on the shore. Whatever had driven him up here must be important, but she didn't immediately fear the worst. If she was in danger, if there had been any threat at all, he would have called her and told her to get out.

  Last winter, or even spring, she would have done exactly that. Now she wasn't so sure. In fact, part of her welcomed the idea of confronting her deepest, darkest fear here, on her turf, with her newfound confidence and highly honed skills.

  But Wyatt hadn't called and she sensed no danger. Something else had prompted the visit. He knew she didn't want him here, though, of course, she couldn't force him to stay away. It was his house, after all, even if he did seem to loathe it.

  She had made it very clear a few months ago that he didn't need to keep coming up here and checking on her. The trip up from D.C. wasn't an easy or a direct one, and he'd made it every weekend for months. Finally confronting him, she'd asked him to limit the visits.

  As usual with the enigmatic man, his reaction had revealed absolutely nothing about what he'd thought of the request. He'd simply honored it.

  Until now.

  The car door opened. She watched as he stepped out, clad, as usual, in a dark, impeccably tailored suit. She had only rarely seen him wearing anything else. Designer sunglasses hid the startlingly blue eyes, but didn't disguise the handsomeness of his masculine features-the sculpted cheekbones, strong jaw, chiseled chin, perfectly formed mouth.

  How a man who looked like a movie star from Hollywood's golden age had ended up in the FBI, she honestly had no idea.

  A soft ocean breeze swept through his thick, black hair, but didn't dare to tousle it. She'd bet Neptune himself wouldn't have the balls to toss ocean spray onto this man's shiny, immaculate shoes. He was that intimidating.

  At least, she'd once thought so. He'd intimidated her to near incoherence once upon a time. Left her tongue-tied and awkward, not knowing what to say or how to act. But she consoled herself with the knowledge that j every other woman he met had the same reaction. And that she no longer felt that way.

  Instead, as she watched him slam the door, then glance up toward the house perched so high above, she realized she felt nothing. At least nothing that could be construed as romantic emotions.

  Physical ones? Well, they were another story. No matter how cold a person's heart, the white-hot flame of j sexual attraction could be hard to resist. Still, any physical attraction she might feel for Wyatt Blackstone was so deeply buried beneath her own layers of self-defense! and wariness, she would never give them free rein.

  He reached the bottom step, carved into the rocky hill. Pausing, he glanced down to the right of it, at a clump of sea grass. Then he turned his head up toward the garage.

  Toward her. Through the camera, he pierced her with that direct gaze even his dark glasses couldn't disguise, demanding entry.

  "Okay, okay," she mumbled, flicking a few keys, disabling the nearly hidden motion detectors that would screech in alarm if he passed them.

  He didn't even glance down again to ascertain that the light on the tiny sensor beside the step had changed from red to green. He merely began to ascend, knowing full well she had heard him arrive. Knowing she had been watching every move he made, knowing she wouldn't, couldn't, keep him out. Even if she wanted to.

  She shivered, acknowledging the truth: Part of her wanted to.

  But worse, another part of her, that tiny, hopeful little spark of her old self that she hadn't been able to entirely extinguish, didn't. You're just tired of hearing nobody's voice but Sarge's telling you to give him twenty more reps.

  Maybe. Or maybe not.

  Either way, she couldn't deny that white-hot flame burned the tiniest bit hotter at the sight of him on the monitor.

  Wyatt rose up the hill, step by step, moving as smoothly and gracefully as a cat. She'd never known a man who appeared so fluid, so comfortable in his own skin. He'd always made her feel like an awkward, fumbling klutz.

  A faint, humorless smile widened her lips. She was so not that girl anymore. Hard to remember what her former self had even been like. Or what she'd really felt about the man drawing closer and closer to her front door. Had her life once really been so innocent that a steady glance from a handsome man could put a blush in her cheeks? Had she truly sometimes fancied herself in love with him, even as out of reach as he had seemed?

  Those reactions were gone, that sweet, innocent part of herself dead and buried. The only reminder of that person was a carved piece of granite marking her grave alongside the graves of her family.

  She returned her attention to the monitor. Blackstone was broad-chested and hard. Lean, but not wiry. So in shape that the steep climb probably hadn't even winded him. And keenly perceptive. Which was why, when he reached the top of the steps and the high iron gate, he didn't even try to punch in the security code that would open it. He merely waited, certain she would have changed it since his last visit a few weeks ago.

  "Fine," she muttered, again clicking a few keys, releasing the lock.

  Then, knowing she'd run out of time, she took her reading glasses off and put them down. Rising from the small cafe* table, she clicked her laptop closed, and headed inside. Her feet bare against the golden oak floor, she noted its warmth and realized she'd been getting cold. It might be only early September, but already the weather was changing. Inside, though, the air was comfortable. A few last remnants of sunlight streamed in from the banks of windows flanking both the east and west sides of the cavernous living room that stretched the width of the house.

  This room was her favorite. Light and airy, with just a few pieces of furniture. No shadowy corners. No odd shapes. No place to hide in the dark.

  Not that it was ever truly dark. The sun might set; a chill might quickly descend. But with the security lights covering the entire property, her world was never entirely black.

  She would not allow herself to be lost in the blackness again.

  Thanks to him.

  Her misgivings about Wyatt's arrival faded. She owed the man everything. If an occasional unexpected visit was the price she had to pay, she'd pay it.

  And maybe she'd even manage to prevent him from ever realizing the truth-that she sometimes wondered if it would have been better if he'd never saved her at all.

  "Stop," she told herself "The new you doesn't think that way."

  Forcing the frown from her face, she strode to the front door, reaching it just as Blackstone's shadow darkened the grated window set in its center.

  Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the dead bolt, the slider lock, and the knob, then pulled the door open. "Hello, Wyatt."

  He stared down at her, the glasses still covering his eyes, the handsome face expressionless. Then, finally, he replied.

  "Hello, Lily."

  "Lily doesn't exist anymore. Remember?"

  Wyatt nodded once, acknowledging the point. "I know. I just can't remember what false name you're using these days." It should have been easy to remember to call this young woman by a false name. After all, she no longer looked anything like the Lily Fletcher he had known.

  The one everyone else in
the world believed dead. Well, everyone except Brandon Cole.

  And the man who had tried to kill her.

  Gone was the long, straight hair that had fallen halfway down her back. Now cut short, it hugged her delicate face, emphasizing the haunted twist of her mouth and the gaunt hollowness of her cheeks. It was no longer a soft, sunny blond, instead dyed nearly black, a startling shade when contrasted with her pale blue eyes. He finally understood the comments he'd gotten throughout his own life, about the color combination. It was striking, did draw attention. Which was why she wore brown contacts whenever she left the house.

  The hair had been shaved off by the doctors dealing with her injuries. The rest she'd done herself, choosing the contacts, the hair dye, the boxy clothes, all for the same reason she'd donned this alternate identity: for her own safety. She wanted to be anonymous, invisible, someone no one would notice, much less remember.

  Funny, though, none of it-the hair, the clothes, the scars, the occasional dark smudges beneath her eyes- could change the fact that she was incredibly beautiful. If anything, the changes in Lily had made her even more so. Because instead of being a delicate, fragile woman, she was now a fully realized one, broken but rebuilt and aware of her own power.

  She was almost intoxicating. And frankly, it was no wonder Brandon had gone from flirting with an office mate to falling for the woman they had both rescued. Who wouldn't fall for her?

  Wyatt mentally shook off the line of thought, not wanting to go there, even in his head, when it came to Lily. She was his friend, his protégée.

  "Can I come in?"

  She stepped back, ushering him forward. "It's your house."

  Perhaps on paper. Any emotional connection he'd had for this place had been sliced out of him decades ago. If not for it being a safe and secret place where Lily could hide and recover, he would never have willingly set foot here again. And even now, knowing it provided a haven for a young woman he was very concerned about, he still felt his heart skip a beat as he crossed the threshold, determined to see the house as it was now, not the way it had been in his childhood. Not the way it had been the night his childhood had ended all too violently.