Cold Midnight

by Joyce Lamb

  She looked up at him. “What makes you think he’s lying?”

  He sat across from her, loosely linking his hands on the table. The circles under his eyes and the lines in his face spoke of exhaustion, yet she reminded herself that his fatigue shouldn’t concern her. Only Quinn concerned her.

  “He made the mistakes that liars make,” Chase said. “His body language was off, and his speech pattern changed. I’ve been trained to watch for that kind of stuff.”

  “What stuff, specifically?”

  “He hesitated when I asked him where he was when he found out about your attack.”

  “Why is that so significant?”

  “Because it’s human nature to remember details of where you were, what song was playing, what you were wearing, et cetera, when you find out something . . . emotional.”

  She thought about when her stepmother had called to tell her that a stroke had killed her father. She’d been wearing a purple T-shirt and white shorts when the phone rang, sifting a scoop of freshly ground hazelnut coffee into the coffeemaker. Ever since, the scent of anything hazelnut made her feel sick.

  “I’d just come home from class,” Chase said, drawing her out of her memories. “Got an A on my English paper about how weather metaphors throughout Jane Eyre paralleled the seasons of her life. Dad was passed out on the sofa, in boxers and a white shirt, reeking of the usual. A Frasier rerun was on too loud on the TV. Mom was in the kitchen making dinner. She had on a pretty sundress. Light orange with butterflies on it. One of her favorites. She’d been crying, so I knew right away they’d had a fight. I said something sarcastic, like, ‘When are you going to leave that asshole?’ And she made excuses for him that I no longer heard. I went to my bedroom and slammed the door. Picked up the phone to call you and got no answer. So I started changing out of jeans and a blue Cubs T-shirt Dad picked up while in Chicago for something or other. I figured I’d just go over to your place and practice my serve until you returned from wherever you were. We could play some tennis, have some dinner. Talk. I really just wanted to talk. We were good at that then.”

  She swallowed against the thickening at the back of her throat. “I get the point.”

  “Not yet, you don’t. So I’m walking out the door, almost to my car, when Mom comes running out of the house. She tells me your mom is on the phone and needs to talk to me. I knew, right then, that something terrible had happened to you. I ran into the house, and your mom tells me, in this weak, cracking voice, that there’s been an accident. She tells me you’re going to need me and could I come.”

  She closed her eyes. She so didn’t want to hear this. “Chase—”

  “Let me finish.”

  Sitting back, she waited for him to say what he needed to say and get it over with.

  “I don’t remember the drive to the hospital,” he went on. “I don’t remember parking or running inside. I don’t remember anything after the moment when I heard your mother’s voice until I was at your side and watching you wake up. But before all that, before the ax fell, I remember the damn butterflies on my mother’s dress. Yet Quinn can’t remember where he was or what he was doing when he found out.”

  She took a steadying breath. She could see the logical explanation even if he couldn’t. “People are different. And you’re not taking into account that he’d been drinking.”

  “A ready excuse, it seems. He was drunk this morning when he tried to tell you something and you shut him up.”

  “Drunk people say stupid stuff sometimes.”

  “You knew I was listening.”

  “I’m not protecting him.”

  “Then why did you shut him up?”

  “I didn’t know what he was going to say. He could have said something innocent that sounded incriminating, and the next thing I know, you’re hauling him off in handcuffs. In fact, that’s exactly what happened.”

  “What do you think he meant by what he said?”

  It’s all my fault. All of it. Doubt crept in on her all over again. What had he meant? But she shoved the uncertainty away. She trusted her brother. “I have no idea.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Chase asked softly.

  The shift threw her, and when she met his scrutinizing gaze, her stomach flipped. God, why couldn’t he be a stranger, someone who knew nothing about her, had no history with her? “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “You’re scared to death, Ky. I can see it in your eyes.”

  She shoved back from the table. “I’m going to wait for Quinn’s lawyer out front.”

  Chase followed her to the door, and when she would have opened it and slipped out, he placed his palm against the wood to hold it closed. Trapped between his body and the door, Kylie felt his warm breath on her hair, felt his nose nudge forward just enough, as he inhaled.

  She quickly faced him, ignoring the way his sunscreen scent filled her head, swirled tantalizingly through her senses.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, hating how breathless she sounded. His heat was overwhelming, just like it had been this morning. But she’d been stronger then, focused. Now, her pulse was all over the place, lunging like a cat that had spotted a helpless mouse. She was sure he would see its heavy throb at the base of her throat.

  He leaned in closer, until they were all but nose to nose. “None of this is about persecuting your brother. This is about finding the truth. That’s what I do. And you know what you do?”

  His breath caressed her lips, and she almost closed her eyes but somehow managed to keep them steady on his. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “You put so much effort into keeping the people around you at arm’s length that you’ve managed to convince yourself and everyone else that that’s what you want. So they all tiptoe around you, avoiding the tough topics at all costs. And you know what the really sad thing is?”

  She stayed silent, braced against the door, trapped by his heat, his scent. This was a game, and he was trying to break her serve. Fat chance.

  He angled his head, making her heart leap when it seemed he was going to kiss her, only to back off an inch. “You’re not living,” he breathed, his voice so low she felt its vibrations slide up her spine.

  She raised her chin a notch. Stop it, she thought. Stop feeling him.

  “You’re just going through the motions,” he said.

  “Maybe I like the motions.”

  “Why not? They’re safe. I remember a time when you had passion. Remember that? Remember what it was like to win?”

  Something strong and ruthless tugged at her heart. “I can’t play like that anymore.”

  “Not tennis. But what about life? Just because you’ve got a bum knee, you’re not allowed to be passionate about anything ever again?”

  She wanted to shout at him. She was passionate! She was passionate about the tennis center, which his investigation had brought to a grinding halt. She was passionate about rebuilding her life here, reconnecting with her family, which his investigation was going to destroy. And she was passionate about Quinn’s innocence, which Chase was trying to shred.

  Chase, Chase, everywhere. She wanted to scream.

  But then he cocked his head in the other direction and moved in closer, forcing her to press the back of her head against the door to maintain an inch between them.

  “Let me help you,” he said, his voice soft, almost a caress. “Let me find out who took out your knee and why. Let me help you deal with why it happened and who did it so you can move on. Can you do that? Not for me, but for yourself.”

  She tried to breathe evenly, fighting the urge to shove him back. But, no, that would give him the advantage, let him know he was getting to her. He wasn’t, she thought. He wasn’t.

  “I’d like to go,” she said, coolly.

  He didn’t budge. He just stood there, trapping her without touching her, his laser-beam gaze considering, speculating. The flaring heat in his eyes was her only warning before his mouth was on hers.


  She would have gasped if the taste of him hadn’t flooded her senses. It wasn’t a sweet, tender kiss. It was a grinding, I’ve-got-something-to-prove kiss. Nonetheless, she responded because she had no choice. She never seemed to have a choice with him. With a moan, she pressed her fists against his muscled chest.

  But instead of letting her go, he captured her face in his palms and gentled the kiss. Her knees went weak, and she would have melted against him if he hadn’t leaned into her first, trapping her hands between them. His knee nudged between hers, and she felt his arousal against her belly. A sharp ache speared through her middle.

  Then she twisted her head to the side, breaking the embrace. “I can’t do this,” she said, embarrassed that she was panting.

  His breath, fast and urgent, was warm against her skin as he nuzzled her cheek with his nose. So tender, so loving.

  “I have to go,” she choked.

  He released her and stepped back, making a point of looking down. She followed his gaze to the bulge in his jeans and felt her cheeks flame along with a renewed flare of desire. God, she wanted him inside her so much she could have begged.

  “Honey, if you stare much longer, you’re going to drool.”

  She raised her gaze to the smug satisfaction on his face, perplexed by the shift in his attitude.

  He ran his knuckles down her cheek. “If I’m an asshole,” he said, “then it’s easier for you to hate me, isn’t it? And that’s what your friends and family do. Make things easier for you.”

  She slapped his hand away. “Don’t do me any favors.”

  He sank his hand into her hair and cupped the back of her rigid neck, drawing her close but not making contact in any other way. “One of these days, Ky, I’m going to make you cut loose in a way you’ve never cut loose before. And I’m going to enjoy the hell out of watching you come apart in my arms.”

  She swallowed against the rush of lust that nearly buckled her knees. “Is that a challenge?”

  His eyes glittered like hard emeralds. “Sure. Why not?”

  “Well, what do you know? It worked.”

  The grim set of his lips twitched. “What worked?”

  “Your ploy to be an asshole.”

  She shoved him back a step and fled.

  23

  QUINN RESTED HIS HEAD AGAINST THE CONCRETE wall behind him and stared at the wall’s twin six feet across from him. The thin, bare mattress under him reeked of body odor, but with six cellmates, there was nowhere else to sit.

  So this was jail. Just as noisy and stinky and overcrowded and scary as he’d expected.

  “What’re you in for?”

  He glanced sideways at the cellmate sharing the mattress, a scrawny white guy with a bald head and a blond mustache. He looked like he hadn’t eaten a full meal in a year.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Quinn said. “I didn’t do it.”

  The guy grinned, showing a darkened front tooth that needed to be pulled. “Yeah, me neither. The other guys in here? They didn’t do anything, either. Same goes for the shitheads in the cell next door.”

  Quinn closed his eyes. Christ, he was fucked.

  And he deserved it. If he hadn’t been such an immature butthead ten years ago, this wouldn’t be happening now. But he’d been filled with bitter resentment then, blaming his older sister, the tennis star who was everything he wasn’t, for his own unhappiness. As if Kylie had anything to do with his teenage desire to do nothing but skip school and hide out in the garage with whatever booze he’d swiped from their clueless parents’ liquor cabinet.

  He’d thought the alcohol helped. He’d thought it numbed the pain, back when he didn’t even know what true pain meant. He could sit on the cold concrete in the garage with his back against the wall and swallow shot after shot, raising the bottle for toasts like a drunken idiot.

  Here’s a toast to failing American history.

  Here’s a toast to skipping English class. Over and over and over.

  Here’s a toast to being denied his driver’s license because Dad caught him watering down his favorite bottle of Jack.

  Here’s a toast to being so desperate for a mind-numbing drink that he suffered through his mother’s sugary favorites: root beer schnapps and crème de menthe.

  Here’s a toast to getting only half the tennis-playing genes that it took to please a demanding, driven father.

  Here’s a toast to being sidelined as his sister’s training partner because he was no longer good enough to challenge her.

  Here’s a toast to life, at sixteen, already sucking more than he could ever imagine.

  And on that day ten years ago, drowning his lame sorrows in the cheapest crap he could afford, bought at the only liquor store in town that sold to minors, he’d blown off the sister he couldn’t stand. He’d told her, “Bite me, go to hell, fuck off. Take your pick.”

  She’d walked away without saying a word, heading into a workout on her own.

  He’d raised his bottle in one final toast: “Drop dead, gorgeous.”

  That one had made him giggle. Loaded, toasted, smashed, blasted, wasted—whatever he was, it had felt pretty fucking good. While under the influence, he hadn’t felt bad about anything. He’d just felt good. Great, really. Fucking great. The world, especially his father and his tennis-prodigy sister, could have kissed his ass.

  He’d flipped the universe the bird that day. And now the universe was flipping it back.

  24

  CHASE PACED HIS TINY KITCHEN. HE HADN’T HAD any coffee this morning, yet his heart raced as if he’d drained three supersized cups. Who needed caffeine when they’d had no sleep and carried around enough nerves for three football players the night before the Super Bowl?

  He’d called Steve Burnett, the officer sitting in front of Kylie’s, every couple of hours, and every time the report had been the same: All’s quiet on the driveway front.

  Chase had delivered the requisite chuckle at his co-worker’s effort to lighten his surly mood, but he hadn’t felt like laughing. He felt like beating something with his fists. Not that that would solve anything, but it would bleed off some of this restless energy.

  Sex would help, too.

  Groaning, he stopped pacing and braced his hands on the edge of the counter.

  Kylie brought out the pieces of himself he couldn’t stand: his propensity for violence—how many times had he pummeled inanimate objects after she’d walked out on him?—and his blinding, driving need when he was around her.

  He wasn’t a just-out-of-his-teens adult anymore, eager to get his rocks off with a hot girl. He was a grown man perfectly capable of controlling himself. Yet, from the moment they’d kissed in her kitchen, glass glittering on the floor all around them, he’d felt . . . edgy and out of control. Quality time in the shower, while thoughts of Kylie naked and moaning danced in his head, hadn’t helped. He’d simply dried off with a bigger need growing inside him, a need that his hand and a fantasy wouldn’t satisfy.

  And it pissed him off. He’d vowed not to let her twist him into knots, yet that’s exactly what happened. And instead of focusing on the case, working the angles and theories and suspects, he was pacing the kitchen like a caged panther, frustrated and wanting.

  Sam was right, he thought. He should have let his partner handle the case. He should have walked away, from the case and Kylie, and everything would have been fine. The status quo. How he loved the status quo.

  Which was bullshit. He’d fooled himself into thinking that for the past ten years in order to get through. But the truth was, the status fucking quo happened to him when he wasn’t looking. He became a father by accident. He got married because that was the right thing to do. He got divorced because that was the right thing to do. He became a cop because he didn’t know what else to do, and his father had been such a lousy one that he’d wanted to show the bastard how it was done. Plus, that would gain him access to the biggest cold case in Kendall Falls history: Who destroyed Kylie McKay’s knee? Not that he’d made an
y more progress than the cops at the time had. Until now.

  And that put him at a crossroads. He wanted two opposing things.

  He wanted Kylie.

  He wanted to find the bastards who tore her apart, and one of them might be her brother.

  He couldn’t very well build a case against Quinn McKay while rebuilding a relationship with the guy’s sister.

  He had to choose. Kylie or justice? And if he chose Kylie, would she choose him?

  The phone rang, jolting him, and he snatched it up without checking the caller ID. “Manning.”

  “Chase, Sylvia Jensen here.” He turned to lean back against the counter as the crime scene analyst kept talking. “I pulled a clear set of prints off the bat used on Kylie’s windshield.”

  He straightened away from the counter. “Excellent.”

  “That depends on how you look at it.”

  AS KYLIE STIRRED SWEETENER AND CREAMER INTO her coffee, her back to her plastic-covered deck doors, she worried about Quinn. He hadn’t been in good shape when she and Jane had dropped him at home after bailing him out of jail yesterday. When they’d offered to stay the night with him, he’d brushed them off with the excuse that he needed some alone time. Kylie feared that meant he planned to try to drink his troubles away again. He’d gone through a stage like that in his teens, but he’d managed to kick the habit before it became a problem he couldn’t deal with without intervention. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  But when Jane didn’t push to smother him with her usual sisterly assistance, Kylie backed off, too. Her sister knew, better than anyone, how to deal with someone in Quinn’s state of mind. “Let him cool off,” Jane had said. “We won’t get anywhere with him until he’s had some time to process what’s happening.”

  Still, Kylie had to fight the urge to reach for the phone and check on him. Or maybe it’d be better to go by his house and do it in person. Except maybe not enough time had passed. Should she call Jane first?

  Sighing, she picked up her coffee and sipped, wondering if this was how her siblings felt when they wanted to reach out to her. Not knowing what to do sucked. And not doing anything seemed wrong.