Deeper Evil (The Evil Secrets Trilogy Book 2)

by Vickie McKeehan

  Baylee gasped. “Did I tell you that? That’s exactly what happens in my dream. My mother had on jeans and a gray, long-sleeved top. It could have been a sweatshirt.”

  It was Dylan’s turn to act as cynic. “Maybe you see it that way, Kit, because that’s the way Baylee described it to you in group therapy, in the beginning. Power of suggestion.”

  Kit shook her head. “No. No. The woman wore her blonde hair in a long layered look, like they did in the eighties. Big hair. I don’t remember Baylee describing the hairstyle she saw that night.”

  Undeterred, Kit added, “You look a lot like her, Baylee. I can see what she looks like dead, lying at the bottom of the stairs. Her body’s twisted…unnaturally, as if she might have broken her neck.” Kit trembled slightly at the image.

  Dylan looked at Baylee’s face, which had gone white at Kit’s words, and then he shot a glance at Jake as if to say, ‘can’t you get her to shut up?’ but Jake just shook his head.

  Jake reminded Dylan, “What can I say? She was right about the Parkers, I vote we go ask William Scott about all of this, see what kind of reaction we get from him.”

  “God, I’m so confused,” Baylee said as she wearily put her head in her hands. “It’s harder to deny all this what with Kit seeing it too. My father has his faults, but how could he keep this a secret all these years? This whole thing is a little too fantastic to even think about.”

  “I think we’re all more than a little blown away as to how she’s able to do this. But I sat there that day in the library when we went looking for some newspaper article in the archives that I really didn’t believe we’d find.” Jake gave Kit a look as though he believed in her one-hundred percent before adding, “Then there it was in black-and-white, elderly couple found slain in the Hollywood Hills. That’s something I won’t forget, or the chills that went with it. I don’t know how she does it, only that she’s been right so far.”

  Baylee’s shoulders slumped. She looked at Kit with genuine resignation. “I’ve known you all my life. I’m not saying I doubt what you’re seeing, of course I don’t. It’s just that, this is my dream, not yours. But how could you possibly know that kind of detail, what my mother looked like, especially that night? You’ve seen pictures of her that I hid from my father and would take out every now and then just to look at her, keep her image alive in my head. But in those pictures her hair was different, like the one in her wedding dress. She wore her hair up the day of her wedding. That night, the night in the dream, that layered look was new. I’m pretty sure she hadn’t worn it that way for very long. I always thought she looked a little like Farah Fawcett. See, I’m getting the memories mixed up.”

  “It’s okay, Baylee. I know what you mean. This is new to me, too. These visions are new. But I’m not going to lie and say I don’t see what happened because I do. Clearly there’s something going on here.”

  “Yeah. And some days it’s all too much to take in,” Dylan suggested as he passed around the plates Baylee had yet to set out on the table. “This whole thing is getting a little too weird. But while you’re at it, Kit, maybe you could look into the past and tell us where the hell Sarah hid that last journal.”

  Kit laughed and threw a potato chip at Dylan’s head. “Very funny. For that I might need my crystal ball.”

  Afterward, while they cleaned up the kitchen and Jake was at the sink loading the dishwasher, Baylee turned to him and announced, “I just want you to know if you have to get a DNA sample from Connor to close the case on Claire’s murder, I won’t hold it against you. I know how much you need to put it behind you once and for all. If that’s the only way…”

  “Baylee, I’m certain he killed Claire. I’m as sure as Kit is about what she said happened to your mother. I want to put Claire behind me. That much is true. But that isn’t why I think the DNA is a good idea. If Connor did it, then we can put him away for a long time, get him out of your life and Sarah’s for good. I want him to pay for what he did to Claire, and that also means he pays for what he did to you. The Boyds have a history of getting away with things. I want an end to all of this once and for all. The DNA may be both our tickets at doing that.”

  “Jake, you have no idea how much I wish you could send Connor to jail with one little sample of DNA. But what if…”

  “Let’s take one step at a time, Baylee. Just one thing at a time. Try not to worry so much about the results.”

  She wondered if he really understood the implications of what he was suggesting. It wasn’t that easy to forget Connor Boyd. They didn’t know him like she did. Sure, it was easy for everyone to tell her to relax but a lot more difficult to put it into practice. She knew it would take a bloody miracle to get him out of her life, out of Sarah’s. Merely wishing him out of sight, out of mind wasn’t going to work. He wasn’t simply going to go away. But she gave Jake a weak smile anyway. “That’s exactly what Dylan told me. I only hope you both know what you’re doing.”

  That night as Baylee lay in bed, she worried about all of it. What would happen if it turned out Connor wasn’t Claire’s killer after all and he’d be free to fight for custody, or at the very least for visitation? What if it turned out he was Claire’s killer but somehow managed to pull legal strings and get away with it? Nerves tangled her up in knots, filling her with fear and doubt.

  When she heard a light knock at the door, it opened before she could respond and Dylan stuck his head in the room. “You want to talk about it?”

  She cocked her head to stare at him. “I may be relatively out of practice, but something tells me you did not come to my room—to talk. And besides, we had a date. For a minute there, I thought I’d been stood up.”

  He walked over to the bed and sat down beside her, rubbed a finger down the side of her face to her chin. “You wore your worried face to bed. I had to come see if you were okay. If there’s a side benefit…” His voice trailed off as he took in the way her hair tumbled to her shoulders, watched those aqua eyes, saw the worried look fall away, and fill with anticipation.

  “Oh, there is. Come here, Dylan. I need you tonight.”

  That eagerness he saw in her eyes, knowing she wanted him as much as he wanted her had him pulling her greedily into his arms. “I thought it would take forever for everyone to go to bed.”

  He felt her pulse thump each time his lips nuzzled another area of throat.

  The hunger gnawed between them.

  She entwined both arms around the back of his head. “I was hoping we could go hiking while we were here, but I think Jake and Kit are going back to L.A. tomorrow. That means we lose our babysitters.”

  “Good.” He slid his hands under her hips and tugged. “We can be alone then, run around naked in the house if we want,” he told her with a twisted grin as he pressed his lips to hers.

  She looked into his eyes, saw craving. Her juices flowed. “You want to run around naked,” she asked as she nibbled back along his shoulder.

  “We could stay naked all day if we want. I want you naked now, Baylee.”

  “You first,” she demanded as she lifted his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor. Her fingers drifted to the button of his shorts. She worked it open and then slid down the zipper. Willing to oblige, he shed his shorts and underwear, stood before her.

  She took a long measured look down his body and gestured with a curve of her finger to come closer. As he moved to her, over her, Baylee felt a warm liquid pooling between her legs.

  “Let’s get you out of these,” he suggested. He worked to pull off her pajama top, his fingers spreading over silky skin. He moved his mouth down to her bared breasts, and began to nip and suckle generously with teeth and tongue.

  A jolt of pleasure swam through her as she ran her fingers through his golden locks. At the idea they’d get to spend the night together, lie together in each other’s arms, Baylee opened up, feeling sexy, bolder than before. She consumed his mouth again in a slow seductive tease before rolling over him. She began to make
her way down his body, using lips and tongue to caress, to fondle, to stroke.

  It was torture, thought Dylan, as he watched her move slowly down his upper body. He did his best to be patient, to let her explore, let her set the tempo, since she seemed so determine to play and take her time.

  But when she continued to use mouth and tongue to lick and taste as she slowly made her way back up to his mouth, patience became difficult. “Come on, Baylee,” he groaned in quiet desperate need. “Now.”

  Running her hands along his body, she slicked along at a leisurely pace. “I want you, Dylan.”

  With that, he sought her core. He began to work her, slowly at first. Stroke for stroke, she became hotter, wetter. He watched as her eyes heated, watched them change and darken, and sent her up, soaring through the bliss.

  She rose up from release, still glassy-eyed. She pushed him back on the bed, straddled his hips, lowered herself onto him and began to ride, up and down, fast and furious, then slow, deliberate strokes, taking her time, but working toward that ultimate goal.

  As soon as he felt her body began to quiver, he grabbed her hips and slammed into her, thrusting faster, deeper, bringing them both through the wave at the same time.

  Sated, his brain struggled to form a single, coherent thought. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t remember the last time sex had been like this for him, completely gratifying on every level.

  Baylee lay on top, boneless. “I know I need to move, but I’m not sure I can.”

  “Mmmm, know what you mean. Let’s just lie here—and recover.”

  She rested her head on his chest. “Sure. Recover and then try it again. Maybe next time we’ll get it right.”

  He laughed. “That’s the spirit. We wouldn’t want to waste a minute of our first night together.”

  Baylee smiled down at him. “Let’s see whatcha got, Surfer Boy.”

  “Ah, a challenge,” he muttered as he drew her down to him, began nuzzling and chewing on the soft curve of her neck again. “I’m good, but even I might need a twenty minute reprieve.”

  She responded by wiggling around on top of him—and felt him go hard inside her.

  “Okay, I guess I’ve got super powers and didn’t even know it,” he joked as he tried to think if he’d ever felt this way before. But how could he concentrate on the past when Baylee kept doing all manner of creative things to his body.

  And once brought to life, he decided to make the most of it.

  After going at each other for a third time, they lay entangled in the sheets, spent, exhausted. Unable to move, he said, “I guess I know what to do in the future to get that worried look off your face.”

  Too relaxed to move, she laughed and moaned, “You have my permission to do that as often as necessary.”

  “I intend to as soon as I find another ounce of strength. Right now, I feel like Superman ran into a big dose of kryptonite.”

  She laughed and rolled into his sweaty chest. “I feel so—tingly.”

  He busted out laughing. “You should. I know how to turn you to mush now, woman.”

  “Then I like turning to mush.”

  His mouth met hers. The kiss had the heat building once again. “God, you’re so incredible. But I honestly don’t think I can manage it a fourth time.” He grinned and pushed her hair off her face. “Give me a couple of hours though and I promise I’ll deliver.”

  She chuckled, sucked the sweat off his neck. “Okay. I’ll let you sleep.”

  “I slept late this morning, thanks to you. How about we talk about what Kit believes happened that night, her vision, for lack of a better word?”

  She sighed. “It’s possible, I guess. She’s seeing what I see in my dream. And we know those two killed the Parkers. So there’s that. But I’m having a tough time with my father’s part in all of it.”

  “It must have been difficult for all of you growing up with parents, you know, like that, so cold and calculating.”

  “I don’t want you pitying me, Dylan.”

  “It isn’t pity exactly. It’s—”

  “Sure it is. You can’t help it. It’s human nature to feel sorry for someone who had the kind of childhood the three of us had. But why is it that a lot of people would rather believe child abuse occurs only in the lower economic echelon and doesn’t think it happens in places like Beverly Hills? If you have money, live in a big house, you couldn’t possibly abuse a child, right? If you think about it, the opposite is true. A person with money can hide it better, lie with conviction, make people believe what isn’t true and then go to great expense to cover it up.

  “I mean, just look at the school nurse, Mrs. Abbott. The woman knew every time I showed up at school with black and blue marks on my face. She’d ask what happened, all concerned. I’d tell her and yet when Dad showed up at school he had a good story at the ready like I’d run into the door or something. And then the same thing happened when Kit would come to school with bruises. Alana would show up at school; she’d tell her version, put on a stellar performance, something like, ‘Oh, my little Kit is so uncoordinated. She’s just the clumsiest little thing on two feet.’ And yet, Mrs. Abbott must have believed my Dad and Alana rather than us because not once did the woman report the abuse to the authorities. Mrs. Abbott had to know the truth. She did the exact same thing with Quinn, too. Ask yourself why the woman wouldn’t just make a call to Protective Services? The three of us decided that the only reason Mrs. Abbott would call home instead of the authorities is that they had to be giving her money, money to keep quiet. And if Dad paid her that meant Alana and Quinn’s stepfather did too. But then what’s a little blackmail in Beverly Hills between parents and the school nurse just to keep a little thing like child abuse a secret from Child Protective Services?”

  Dylan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The school nurse knew and did nothing? My God, how could she violate the law like that, live with the fact, sleep at night? How’d you guys get through all of it?”

  “We tried not to go home, only when we had to.”

  “Oh, Baylee.”

  “And once we got out on our own, we eventually got the help we needed. For three years, sometimes twice a week, we’d meet for group therapy. Group therapy was cheaper for us than individual treatment, and we were on a tight budget back then. But that isn’t the only reason group worked. Initially, we went together because, let’s face it, we were our own support system. And we just didn’t think anyone would believe us. Mrs. Abbott hadn’t, so why would anyone else? Our parents had money. My father the well-known director, Quinn’s stepfather, an influential man in the music industry, and of course, there was Alana, a successful businesswoman with Sumner and Jessica Boyd for friends, very powerful friends. But after our first couple of visits together as a group, Dr. Strasburg gave us a validation we’d never had, accepted what we had to say as fact. Except for the three of us, no one had ever done that before.”

  He stared at her angelic face, looked deep into those aqua eyes, saw the pain there. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say. But he knew what would get her mind off the door he’d unintentionally thrust open. He moved to her mouth, began to leisurely run his hands down her body.

  Sure enough, he discovered he had more energy than he thought.

  The sun filtering in through the window had her squinting into the morning light. Without moving her sore body too much, she reached an arm out to feel the other side of the bed. Empty. So he couldn’t even bother to stay and snuggle, she thought lazily as she rolled to glance at the clock. 6:50.

  My God had she really slept that late? She yawned and stretched. Her body felt thoroughly used. Dylan’s lovemaking had her feeling more relaxed than she had in a year.

  Sliding out of bed, she grabbed for her robe and smiled as she thought back to the kind of night they’d had. Marathon sex could be draining. She needed coffee. But as she tied the belt on the robe, she wondered why the house was so quiet.

  She headed down the hall toward Sarah’s roo
m. Before she ever reached the open doorway, she heard the giggling first, then a genuine belly laugh from her six-month-old daughter. Her baby sounded happy, babbling in the way of all infants, content.

  She pushed open the door wider and there, lying on the floor, was Dylan, stretched out on his stomach, stacking wooden blocks into a tall tower while Sarah sat in front of him taking delight in knocking them all down then clapping her little hands together.

  She watched them from the doorway for a moment, the scene tugging at her heartstrings. Dylan looked like a proud father, spending precious alone time playing on the floor with his little girl. Could she pretend and make it true? Or was it a ridiculous fantasy she needed to stop weaving?

  When Sarah spotted her mom, she began clapping her hands together. Dylan turned to catch her gaze. They stared at each other as desire sprang up between them in spite of the baby.

  Sarah reached over, put both of her small hands on Dylan’s cheeks, trying to get his attention, trying to get him to play with the blocks again.

  Baylee watched as Dylan took the hint, slowly turning his face toward Sarah’s. With his long frame, he playfully rolled into the blocks, knocking them all down for her benefit.

  He scooped up the infant, the movement causing Sarah to giggle with glee. “I let you sleep in, thought you could use the extra hour after—the big night we had.”

  “Thank you. The extra sleep was appreciated. You changed her diaper.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Piece of cake. No poop, just dripping wet. Took me a while to get it taped together with her squirming around, though, but then I’d watched you enough, thought I could handle it.”