by Kaylea Cross
He kicked off his snow-covered boots, hung his coat on one of the pegs by the door, and followed her into the living room. “Tell me again, how the…visions work.”
She walked away from him, into the kitchen, then measured him up as if trying to make up her mind, running her teeth over her lower lip, looking conflicted. “I see a picture in my mind,” she said at last, “and it makes me sick. I feel—I can’t explain. And it doesn’t go away until I get it out. I can’t stop thinking about it until then.”
He tried to understand how that might work, how that might feel. “And it all started after the accident on the reservoir?”
She nodded.
He sat on a kitchen chair and leaned back, taking as relaxed a pose as possible, putting himself lower to set her at ease. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Again she moved away from him, to the counter to stare out the back window into the night. “We used to go ice skating every chance we got. And that time, Maddie wanted to bring Dylan.”
“Dylan Miller, the neighbor’s son.” He’d read the file. Victim: Dylan Miller, age four, male. Currently, the Miller farm stood abandoned across the road. The family had moved away shortly after the accident.
“We fell through,” she said, her voice brittle. “Maddie was closest to me. I pushed her out, onto the ice; then I tried to save Dylan, but I couldn’t find him.”
And she wouldn’t get out without the boy. She’d stayed and searched until she’d gotten lost under the ice. She’d spent twenty minutes down there, her metabolism shut down by the cold. Dead. Her file had included interviews with the ER staff. Her rescue had been hailed as a miracle.
“One second he was there,” she whispered, “the next he disappeared. His skates pulled him down.”
He recognized the look in her eyes as she glanced at him, the soul-eating guilt. He knew what it meant to lose someone and carry the blame for it, to be utterly helpless to do anything to save them.
It had been fifteen years and he still wasn’t over Shannon’s death. Dylan had been lost only a year ago. All things considered, Ashley held herself together admirably well. His gaze strayed to the crayon art on the fridge. Her daughter, probably, had kept her sane, given her a reason for living. Everybody needed something.
He had his revenge.
“I think maybe part of you wanted to stay with him,” he said.
She stared at him as she considered his words. “I did. What right did I have to live if I couldn’t save Dylan?” she asked quietly then. “I was dead. They brought me back.”
“They did that to you. You didn’t choose it.”
“So?”
“I think you still have some kind of a link to the other side.” God, now he was talking crazy, but he said it anyway. “As if you’d left a little part of you behind.”
She stared at him, paling. “So the dying can reach out to me,” she whispered.
He nodded.
“I thought it was because I lost a life. I thought if I saved a life, the visions would go away. They didn’t.”
“I’m glad you came for me anyway.” He couldn’t imagine how hard that must have been for her.
She gave a wry smile. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“I’m afraid I might have already.” He watched her. “But thank you. I mean that, Ashley.”
She looked away, then back at him. “I wanted to thank you too, for not giving my paintings to the FBI.”
“How do you know I haven’t?”
“If they had the paintings, they would have said something.”
He hated the agents who kept getting in his way. And he didn’t want them messing with her either.
So he felt protective toward her. So what? She’d saved his life. She deserved something in return.
“Any new urges to paint?” He asked the question to prove to himself that he was here to investigate and not just to see her.
She shook her head as she stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking all alone and vulnerable and completely lost. And completely hot, regardless. She had barely a touch of makeup on, the simple black slacks and cotton shirt she wore hardly seductive. Her body didn’t need enhancement—all curves and mile-long legs. She was a knockout, pretty much. The sight of her certainly knocked him back a pace every time he looked at her. But something deeper than her physical attributes drew him now, and he got his first inkling that he might be in trouble.
He needed to say good night here and go about his business. But when he stood, he walked to her instead of heading straight for the door. He stopped a couple of feet from her. “Does it always make you feel sick when you paint like that?”
She nodded but wouldn’t look at him.
“Next time you feel it coming on, call me.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“I can come over.”
“I can handle it. I don’t want…” She bit her lip.
But he knew what she’d been about to say. She didn’t want anyone to see her like that. He got it. He wanted to be alone too, when the darkest of his rage got hold of him. “Call me anyway.”
Her gaze came up, her eyes wide—that impossible shade of green that haunted his dreams. She blinked hard, fighting to be strong. But underneath it all, she was broken still on so many levels.
He didn’t think at all before he stepped all the way up to her. His arms went around her, and he pulled her closer, tucked her against him. Every inch where they touched, his body came alive.
For a split second, she leaned into the offered comfort. Instant lust cut through him, the urge to have her mixing with the urge to protect her. But, before he could have done something stupid, she pulled away.
They stared at each other for a moment.
She’s going to be a complication, he thought, not for the first time.
He was a cop. Regardless of whether he thought her innocent or not, she was an FBI suspect. “I shouldn’t have—This isn’t why I came. I came—” He had no idea how to finish that sentence, so it was a good thing she cut him off.
“To soften me up and see if I spill something?” Hurt and betrayal rang in her voice.
The momentary truce was gone between them.
Her face hardened, and her chin came up. “I want my paintings back.”
Of course. That was all she wanted from him. Not comfort, and not more than comfort, certainly. And he shouldn’t want anything from her at all. Even if his entire body ached with the need to have her back in his arms.
To hell with that.
“No,” he said.
She folded her arms. “What do you want from me, Jack?”
Just a few days ago, he would have known the answer: a confession. But he no longer thought she was really Blackwell’s accomplice.
Except, then why was he here?
He had no right to want anything from her. She didn’t even like him, and to be honest he couldn’t blame her. He’d been a jackass to her from the moment they’d met.
His ringing phone saved him from having to answer her question. He took the call—Mike from the station.
“I’m not supposed to tell you this, but someone just reported bones in the woods out beyond Beckett Road.”
He walked away from Ashley. “Who?”
“Some kids out looking for trouble, no doubt, or a quiet place to smoke weed.”
“Anybody dispatched yet?” He stepped into his boots and grabbed his coat.
“Bing is going out.”
But he was closer.
He looked back at Ashley, standing alone in the middle of her kitchen, her arms wrapped around her, her haunted green eyes watching him. The twinge of reluctance to leave her was something new and unexpected. It surprised him more than a little.
Something else drew him in the opposite direction, something darker. He gave in to that, leaving her with a brief nod as he walked out the door. And then everything else fell away, his mind focused on Blackwell.
Anticipation hummed thr
ough him as he jumped into his car and slammed his foot on the gas. He wanted to be first on the scene.
He reached the spot in five minutes, saw the snowmobiles’ tracks, pulled over by the side of the road, and followed the tracks in. His boots crunched on the snow, his flashlight illuminating the path ahead. The trees stood silent, their barren branches scraping against him now and then. In a minute or two, he could see the bright headlights of the snowmobiles up ahead.
“Who are you?” One of the four teenagers standing around challenged him.
“Broslin PD.” Jack turned his flashlight on the kids.
Four boys squinted at him, one familiar, the one he’d caught on Ashley’s land. The kid recognized him too and hunched down in his jacket.
They were all around high school age, red-cheeked and wide-eyed, half scared, half excited.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just hanging out,” the one who’d challenged him a second ago answered, sounding defensive, probably the gang leader. “The bones are over there.” He pointed to a stand of bushes.
Jack panned the bleached bundle of bones scattered over the frozen ground. They’d been there for a while, probably since the summer. Predators had gotten at them. He didn’t even have to bend over to make ID. The remains belonged to an unfortunate calf that had somehow wandered away from a nearby farm and gotten tangled in the bushes.
He kicked at the bones and swore under his breath as they scattered, all the tension and anticipation leaking out of him, leaving nothing but stark disappointment.
Through the leafless trees, in the silent night, he could hear Bing’s car coming up the road, slowing.
“You stay right here,” he snapped at the kids, then walked out to the road to meet his captain.
Bing was shaking his head as he got out of his cruiser and spotted Jack. “If I thought it would work, I’d come up with some trumped-up charge and put you under house arrest. I thought putting you back on admin duty would keep you out of my hair.” He got his industrial-size flashlight from the trunk.
“I haven’t started admin duty yet.” He had to pass a physical and get a psych approval first, which he planned on doing first thing in the morning. He’d already scheduled his appointments.
“Smart-ass. What’s going on here?”
“Some old bones from a stray calf. Couple of teenagers where they shouldn’t be.”
Bing gave a resigned groan as he headed for the bushes, Jack following. The captain panned the kids with his flashlight when they reached them, settling on the tallest. “Your father know you’re out here, Bobby?”
“No, sir.”
“You know them?” Jack asked.
Bing turned away from the boys. “One of them is the son of the high school principal; the other one’s father is Jim Foster, a local councilman,” he said under his breath as he shook his head. “Might as well have them turn out their pockets. Read them the riot act. They probably already tossed whatever weed they brought to smoke out here, but it won’t hurt to put the fear of God in them a little.”
It didn’t happen that way. A call came in before he took two steps.
“Officer down,” Mike said on the other end and rattled off an address.
“Harper.” Bing ran for his car. “He went out on a domestic-violence call earlier.”
Jack was right behind him, the boys already forgotten.
Chapter Eight
“I booked you at Maximilian’s for the end of May,” Isabelle said on the other end of the line as Ashley pulled her dinner from the microwave, General Tso’s chicken.
At five o’clock Monday afternoon, this was probably the last call her agent would make for the day. Which meant there was more coming. Isabelle hated giving bad news to her artists. Good calls went out first thing in the morning. Rejections were left until the last minute, as she usually would work throughout the day to make another booking, secure a review in a top newspaper, or otherwise soften the blow.
So Ashley asked, “But?” and waited for her agent to tell her the rest.
A long moment of silence passed.
Ashley brushed her hair back from her face. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”
“If it’s not a sell-out show, I’m not sure if I can book you again. And you need to be here,” Isabelle told her. “I’m sorry. With the economy… Galleries are losing money. I can’t book shows like I used to. They want a sure thing. They want the big names, the heavy hitters.”
She understood. The last two shows, not only had she not been able to send as many paintings as she’d promised, but she hadn’t been able to force herself into making the trip. Her anxieties had turned her into a prisoner. Which would change. She would have to go this time. Too much was riding on the line.
She had to conquer her fears, as simple as that. And she had to get the FBI off her back. But forcing a vision hadn’t worked. She had tried again after Jack had left after his brief but bewildering visit, tried until she’d nearly been in tears from frustration. Nothing happened.
The first time she’d seen him in the grave, he’d been on the brink of death. Did he reach out to her? His theory—as crazy as it sounded—made more sense than anything she’d come up with so far.
Maybe the reason why she hadn’t been able to bring back that connection was because currently the man was very much alive. And messing with her head.
He knew her darkest secret. He believed her. He’d held her in his arms, and it’d felt so good she’d wanted to stay there forever. She needed to snap out of that foolishness.
Even if his strong arms around her felt better than anything in a long time. Even if he made her feel alive, whether with anger or awareness or need, but always alive. Even if part of her was beginning to wish for things that could never be.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Forget Jack. He was trouble with a capital T, at a time when she couldn’t afford complications.
“Graham Lanius stopped by,” she said to channel her thoughts into another direction. “I told him he needs to talk to you.”
“Good. We’re a little concerned but not desperate yet. You need to be in better galleries than his. He might think he’s some hotshot dealer, but he doesn’t have the best of reputations at the art shows.” She hesitated. “Maybe it’s more about the money for him than the art. I’ll deal with him if he calls.” The sound of a keyboard clicking came from the other end. “Now the most important thing. About the pictures you sent this morning.”
Ashley held her breath as she waited for the verdict. Even after all these years, this part never got easier.
“The raw pain is gone.” Isabelle paused. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. The accident wasn’t your fault. You almost died trying to save that boy.”
Isabelle could read artists from their paintings like Freud could read people from their dreams. And she could read clients from their clothes, the cars they drove, how they wore their makeup, how they spoke. She knew the perfect art for every gallery, for every client. She was amazing at what she did.
“There’s something else going on here,” she said now. “Some new tension. Want to talk about it?”
Ashley hesitated, not sure what to say. The FBI thinks I’m aiding and abetting a serial killer, didn’t sound like something that would advance her career.
“All right. We’ll talk when we meet,” Isabelle said on the other end. “So about the paintings—the work is good, which is the most important thing. Very moody. I like it. Fantastic colors. Good negative space. Good everything. The rhythm of the brushstrokes is mesmerizing. I really like the new energy.”
Ashley let out the breath she’d been holding.
“Maximilian will want titles. I don’t suppose you changed your mind about that.”
She didn’t title her work, as a rule. She felt like it would be too much of an imposition on the viewer, getting in the way of letting the painting say whatever it wanted to say, which would be different from person to person.
“And you know I agree.”
“You think it will be an issue?”
“You’re the artist. They’ll ask, but ultimately they’ll respect your artistic vision.” Another pause on Isabelle’s end. “So about the last photo you sent this afternoon, the one with the unfinished work. Is this a new direction? That one has a different tone than the others. There’s hope in it. And some kind of masculine energy. Is there a hot guy in the picture you neglected to mention?”
Ashley looked at the painting on the easel. Soaring swirls of blue dominated the canvas. She’d started it that morning. She had no idea where the image had come from, what it meant. Hope? No, she didn’t think so. This one time, Isabelle had to be mistaken.
Her ruling emotion when it came to Jack Sullivan was definitely confusion. “Staying away from men until I have other things straightened out.”
So what if there was a certain attraction? So what if the blue in her painting matched his cerulean eyes exactly? She itched to paint those eyes, the shadows and pain at their depth, the planes of his face that often turned sharp and hard. A portrait of Jack Sullivan.
Except, for a good portrait, the artist had to know the subject, know him truly and well, know what lived behind the eyes. And she knew precious little of Jack Sullivan. He had as many secrets as she did, or more, she was sure of that.
Did he really believe her? Or was it a ploy to get through her defenses, get her to let her guard down so he could find some dirt on her?
He’d said he believed her.
Did she dare believe that?
She wanted to. It would have been nice to have someone in her corner who knew the worst about her and accepted her regardless.
He’d brought her a shovel, whatever that meant. At least, she was pretty sure he’d been the one to bring it. The man was a puzzle.
“So, what’s new with you?” she asked.
“I’ll come down the last week of March. We’ll catch up,” Isabelle said. “If you could have a few more works finished by then, it would be great.”