The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set
Page 59
“Maybe another time,” he said. “I’ll show myself out.”
He could sense the heat of her stare on his back, and figured she was either disappointed or angry. But that wasn’t his problem. He hadn’t pretended this was anything more than sex.
Locating his socks and shoes near the door, he stuffed the socks into his pocket and slid his feet into the shoes without bothering to tie them.
He did, however, turn the button to lock the door on his way out. He might be an ass, but he was a conscientious one.
Opting for the stairs over the elevator, Jack listened with interest to the voicemail from the call he’d silenced earlier. Digging the keys from his pocket with his free hand, he used the remote to unlock his Porsche, which he was relieved to see hadn’t been stolen during the night. This wasn’t the best part of town.
After he backed out of the parking space, Jack returned the call. “Mr. Cavanaugh? This is Jack Wellington,” he said. “I’d like a little more information about your sister’s situation.”
CHAPTER TWO
“JUST a little pinch,” the nurse said before sliding the needle under Caitlin’s skin. Caitlin flinched out of habit, although in truth she barely felt it. She seemed… numb, she guessed was the right description. Physically and mentally. In that weird sort of emotional state in which nothing that happened seemed real.
But it is real, the little voice in her head reminded her. A man was dead. In her bedroom.
And it looked like she’d killed him.
No. She didn’t know that. She didn’t know what had happened because she couldn’t remember.
It was that more than anything that terrified her.
Caitlin looked away from what the nurse was doing, unable to stomach the idea of anything else invading her body. She’d had to submit to a rape kit, since she’d woken up naked next to a dead man, with no idea how either situation had happened. They’d also taken blood samples to test for signs of various narcotics. The fact that her memory was blank – terrifyingly blank – suggested a possibility of a date rape drug. Caitlin had been in a bar last night, and she had consumed an alcoholic beverage. She didn’t think that she’d left her glass unattended, but she couldn’t say for absolute certain that she hadn’t. She knew that she’d turned away from it at one point to respond to a couple of texts. That much she remembered. And the bar had been packed.
It was Memorial Day weekend, after all.
Caitlin had researched enough for the novels she wrote to know that most date rape drugs were colorless and tasteless, and easy enough to slip into someone’s drink, unnoticed. And if the perpetrator was skilled, a few seconds of inattention was all it took.
But she never thought that research would apply to her.
Caitlin squeezed her eyes closed, but she couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped between her lashes. This was like a bad dream. No, a bad plot. A bad, clichéd plot. Waking up next to a dead person was about as original as a secret baby, or the playboy male hero who’s finally felled by the right woman.
Caitlin would be embarrassed if she weren’t so horrified and sick.
She’d killed a man.
No. There had to be another explanation.
“All finished,” the nurse said, her voice gentle. The medical staff had been very kind. Caitlin looked at the vial, now filled with her blood, knowing that they were going to test it for things beside narcotics. Like diseases. Even if she hadn’t been raped – and she didn’t feel like she had. She wasn’t sore inside. Her thighs weren’t bruised. Her body bore no real physical signs of trauma. She knew that didn’t necessarily mean it hadn’t happened, however. If she’d been drugged, she might not have put up much of a fight.
Except that the man was dead. And bloody. Obviously, she must have fought back.
But even if he hadn’t… raped her, she was still at risk for blood-borne pathogens. She’d cut her foot open on a knife that was covered with his blood.
Because she’d used it to stab him. Oh God.
“Is there someone you want to call to come be with you? While you’re waiting for the detectives?”
“No.” Caitlin shook her head. She’d recently moved here from Atlanta, and didn’t know many people. She’d already called her brother, Lance, and he in turn had called his fiancé, Connie – Caitlin’s best friend. Her brother was in London. She’d felt badly about using her neighbor’s phone to place that call, but he’d insisted. Caitlin promised to pay for the charges. Connie was clearing her schedule, but she was still in Atlanta, five hours away. It would take her a while to get here.
Until then, Caitlin was on her own.
The nurse’s smile was sympathetic as she squeezed Caitlin’s arm. “I brought you some scrubs,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after you put them on.”
She’d arrived at the hospital wrapped in a blanket provided by her neighbor, because she hadn’t been able to go back inside her townhouse to retrieve clothes. First, because cops were crawling all over the place, and second, because she couldn’t bear to look at… him again.
Her stomach churned, but Caitlin fought it. She needed to be able to focus.
She’d sat on the sofa in her neighbor’s front parlor, teeth chattering despite the fact that it was at least eighty-five degrees outside, and tried to answer the questions of the first officers who’d arrived at the scene. But she’d been in shock. The shock had caused her chest to tighten, and she’d panicked when she realized she didn’t have her inhaler.
She didn’t even have her clothes. The asthma attack – the worst one she’d had in a long, long while – precipitated them delivering her to the emergency room before all of their questions could be asked.
Caitlin knew enough about police procedure – again, from her research – to know that she could expect detectives to arrive soon. A man was dead, after all, and he’d died violently. In her home.
In my bedroom.
Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut again, pushing the image out of her head until she had to relive it. The police would want to talk to her while her memory was fresh.
She thanked the nurse, waiting for her to leave the room before she eased the paper gown from her shoulders. Caitlin studied her body with a sort of clinical detachment. There were marks on her upper arms. As if someone had grabbed her? And a small bruise on one knee. But aside from that, physically she appeared to be okay.
Unable to stop her mind from working the puzzle, Caitlin considered. Her injuries – or lack thereof – seemed totally disproportionate to the damage inflicted on the man. Maybe she’d somehow… come to when he was in the process of… attacking her, and caught him unaware with the knife? But where had the knife come from? Had he carried it with him, using it to threaten her? And she’d wrested it away?
All without acquiring more than a few minor bruises.
She pressed her fingers to her temple. Something wasn’t right.
Once again shelving the dozens of questions she had, Caitlin bundled her hair back, tying it in a knot before sliding her legs over the side of the bed. She stepped into the scrub bottoms, careful to keep her weight off of her injured heel. The linoleum floor felt cold against her already chilled skin, and Caitlin shivered. She quickly pulled the top over her head just as there was a knock on the door.
“Ms. Cavanaugh?” the nurse said, peeking around the door. “Oh good. You’re dressed. The police are here.”
She opened the door wider and then stood back, admitting a uniformed female policewoman followed by an older man in a tired suit. Because sitting back on the bed made her feel vulnerable in a way she couldn’t explain, Caitlin stood awkwardly beside it, conscious of her unbrushed hair and bare feet.
And of the blood she’d washed from her skin not so long ago.
She swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump from her throat so that she could greet the cops, but ended up nodding instead. She didn’t trust her voice not to break.
This couldn’t be happening.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. Tried again. “Yes, I’m Caitlin Cavanaugh.”
The nurse quietly backed out of the room, leaving the door only slightly ajar. The female officer took up position beside it as the detective stepped forward.
“I’m Detective Donaldson,” he said. “And this is Officer Foley. My partner is at the scene, so she’s here due to the, uh, sensitive nature of the investigation.”
Because they thought that Caitlin might have been raped.
She swallowed again. “I understand.”
“Would you like to have a seat?” Donaldson asked, gesturing toward the bed, and even though Caitlin didn’t particularly want to, she realized that it was silly for them all to remain standing. She perched on the end of the bed, thankful that she was wearing scrubs instead of that awful hospital gown. At least she was fully covered.
Donaldson rolled over the stool that the doctor had used earlier when she’d stitched up Caitlin’s foot. Officer Foley remained standing.
Caitlin clasped her hands together in her lap.
Donaldson glanced at them and then looked back at her face, his expression gentle. “I’d like you to walk me through the events of last night as you remember them.”
“The problem,” she started, and then stopped because she realized her voice was shaking. She cleared her throat. “The problem is that I can’t remember.”
“I spoke with the first responders at the scene. I know that you’ve said you can’t remember what happened.”
“I’m not just saying I can’t remember. I can’t.”
The detective held up a baseball mitt-sized hand. “Don’t get yourself all worked up,” he chided. “You don’t want to bring on another asthma attack. I understand that’s what landed you here prematurely?”
Caitlin realized that she was indeed breathing erratically. She made an effort to calm herself. “Yes,” she finally said. She would have had to visit the ER anyway in order to have her foot stitched and to… get checked out. But the officers at the scene hadn’t been happy that she wasn’t able to answer all their questions before she left. That much was plain.
Donaldson hesitated, watching her face, and then pulled something out of his jacket pocket. “Recorder,” he told her. “This is obviously difficult for you, so I don’t want you to have to repeat it more than necessary. This way I won’t forget any details.”
Caitlin nodded. “I understand.” She told the detective about waiting for the woman she was supposed to meet at the bar, gave him her name. “I’m afraid I don’t know Leslie’s number off the top of my head, as we’re only acquaintances with a mutual friend, but it’s in the contacts list on my phone.” Which was… actually, she didn’t know where her phone was. “It might be in my purse.”
“It was.”
Caitlin opened her mouth and then closed it. “You went through my purse?” she finally said.
“Not personally, no. But I was in contact with my partner prior to coming in here. You have to understand that a homicide occurred in your home, Ms. Cavanaugh. In your bedroom. That means your house is an active crime scene, and everything in it potential evidence.”
A chill passed over her that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
It was the detective’s job to get to the bottom of what had happened. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t feel violated all over again.
“Now,” he continued in that mild, grandfatherly tone. “You were saying?”
Caitlin suddenly wasn’t so sure that she should be saying anything at all, but felt that the alternative – invoking her Fifth Amendment rights – might make her appear guilty. And she wasn’t guilty. Not of anything other than defending herself.
Maybe.
The little voice inside her head whispered that she really had no idea what had happened. An image of blood pooling on the floor beneath the man’s bare foot suddenly filled the screen of her mind’s eye, and Caitlin couldn’t stop herself from shuddering. She wrapped her arms around her waist, rocked gently back and forth. Both the detective and the female officer watched her attempt to pull herself back together with a sort of clinical detachment that made Caitlin feel severely discomposed.
“I was saying,” she finally said, struggling to sound self-assured “that after Leslie – the woman I’d planned to meet – informed me that she wasn’t going to be able to make it, I finished the glass of wine I’d ordered and left.”
“Just one glass?”
“Yes. I was driving. One glass is all I’ll allow myself.”
“Where were you parked?”
“In the lot on River Street.”
“Premium parking. Especially this time of year.”
“Yes.” Caitlin nodded, feeling her shoulders relax just a little. These were questions she could answer, because she remembered the first part of the night. “I got lucky. A car was backing out just as I pulled into the lot.”
“Did you go anyplace after you left the restaurant? Maybe to another bar?”
Caitlin opened her mouth to make an immediate denial, but the fact was that she couldn’t say for certain. Her heart started to beat faster. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” She licked her lips, which suddenly felt like sandpaper. “I certainly didn’t have any plans to do so.”
“Maybe you bumped into another friend outside.”
“I don’t really have many friends here yet. I only moved here a couple months ago.”
Donaldson consulted the little notepad that was balanced on his knee. “From Atlanta.”
“Yes.”
“What prompted your relocation? New job?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m a writer, so it doesn’t particularly matter where I live. I… needed a change of scenery.”
He nodded, and Caitlin braced herself for the follow up, but the detective didn’t seem inclined to pursue her reasons for leaving. Thank God. It wasn’t something she cared to get into, especially not under the circumstances.
“You don’t have any family in the area? Boyfriend? Although I guess it’s not politically correct to make that assumption these days. Maybe you have a girlfriend.”
“No,” Caitlin said. “To any of it. My family is in Atlanta, and I’m not romantically involved with anyone.” She wasn’t going to answer his implied question about her sexual orientation. It wasn’t any of his business.
“Did you talk to anyone while you were waiting for your friend… excuse me, your acquaintance, to show up?”
“Not really. A few words to the bartender. Mostly I just used the time to people watch.”
“Did you happen to notice anyone in particular when you were people watching? Maybe someone who was watching you back?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing that stood out, anyway. There was…”
“There was what?” the detective prompted when Caitlin trailed off.
Caitlin hesitated. “Well, there was a table of men – young men. Probably college age. They were rowdy. They’d obviously been drinking. One of them nudged his friend with his elbow when I looked their way, and then winked. But it was nothing.”
“You got a description of this guy?”
“Ah, blonde. Stocky across the upper body.” She gestured with her hands. “I can’t say how tall he was, as he was sitting down. And I didn’t look very closely, because I didn’t want to encourage him.”
“Not your type?”
“No, Detective,” she said, her voice chilling a degree. “Drunken young men in bars are definitely not my type.”
“What is your type?”
An image flashed through her mind, but she shoved it away. She didn’t like that he kept harping on her love life. “I don’t know that I have one. Nor do I think it’s a relevant line of questioning.”
He
raised one bushy brow. “So noted. When you were doing this people watching, did you happen to see the man who ended up in your bedroom?”
Bile rose in Caitlin’s throat. She shook her head. “I… I didn’t look at him… closely. This morning. I’m not even one hundred percent sure I could identify him right now.”
“And you’re certain you didn’t meet him somewhere previously?”
“Positive.”
“If you didn’t look at him closely, how can you be positive?”
Caitlin opened her mouth and then closed it. She realized that her thoughts were more confused than she’d previously considered, because she was allowing him to trip her up.
“Because,” she repeated slowly “I’m new to the area. I’ve spent the past couple of months unpacking and working to meet a deadline. I’m a writer. I’ve hardly left the house, let alone been out socializing. And to be honest, I’m not much for socializing anyway. The only reason I was out last night is that Connie – my brother’s fiancé – bullied me in to meeting up with her friend Leslie, who is also a bridesmaid. She’s afraid I’ve been being a hermit, which she knows I have a tendency to do. Therefore, I sincerely doubt that I’ve previously met that… that man. Certainly not to speak with. Maybe he was in the coffee house or grocery store or gas station at the same time I was, but if that’s the case I don’t recall it. So I’m telling you that even though I didn’t stare at his face this morning, for obvious reasons, I’m certain I don’t have a previous acquaintance with him.”
Donaldson nodded. “Fair enough. Since you claim you don’t remember anything between leaving the bar last night and waking up this morning, how about you walk me through what happened from that point?”
Caitlin ignored his use of the word claim again, wanting to get this over with. She needed – God, she didn’t know what she needed. A hot bath. A hot, bleachy bath.
To wake up and realize that this was all a bad dream.
But since that wasn’t happening, she steeled herself to go on. “After I crawled out of bed and vomited, I knew something was wrong. There…” she swallowed. Closed her eyes. “There were spatters on my face. On my body. In my hair. I realized that it was blood –”