Devil's Dawn (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 2)

by Raine, Charlotte

  "Yeah," I say. "I know. It seems like she's so much better than he is in the world of high school, but maybe they just…supported each other. They've both been through rough times. Maybe they bonded over that."

  "Now she has nobody."

  "She has her family." I shake my head. "Let's return to the case."

  "Maybe Sarah knows somebody who was mad at him," she says.

  "She would have mentioned it when we talked to her before." I sigh. "I don't think that girl can go through talking about her tragedies anymore. I can barely deal with it. Let's just focus on who killed him. I suppose it could have been random. Maybe there was a homeless person there that wanted something he had or a fisherman was caught doing something illegal."

  "That sounds a bit out there," she remarks.

  I slam my hand on the coffee table, causing her to flinch.

  "I am just trying to figure out what happened!" I shout. "Nick is dead! He's dead! That's my third family member who has died, and this one can't be Mason's fault! Trust me, I checked that, too. He's still in prison. Teresa, you better start fucking running because clearly anyone who becomes close to me dies. I am absolutely certain that if Nick had stayed with the Jorgensens, he would still be alive."

  She puts her hand on my arm.

  I jerk away from her and stand up. "I don't want to be comforted. You heard me. You should get going. Run before some random killer finds you and decides to kill you just for knowing me! Run before some sociopath finds new creative ways to kill people I love!"

  She stares at me. "You love me?"

  I gape at her. "Really? That's what you got out of that whole thing?"

  "I heard everything you said. Run. Sociopaths. Creativity," she says. "But you love me?"

  I turn away from her. "Of course, I do. Of course. And I can't. Because everyone around me is killed. And I can't let that happen to you."

  "I love you, too."

  The words grip me like a vice on my literal heart. I can feel it tighten around the organ, pain pulsing inside me. I know it shouldn't hurt, but it does because it would have been easier to simply let her go. I could believe this was just an overextended fling. I could remain with my memories of the deceased and pretend Teresa was always something that would fall apart as soon as she caught an interesting case somewhere else.

  Her hand touches my shoulder. When I don't turn around, she walks around me so that we're face-to-face.

  She kisses me. It's soft and sweet, but I need neither of those things right now.

  I grab her around the waist and lift her up. She instinctively wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me close again. We kiss, harder and harsher.

  She slides her fingers into my hair. I can feel every follicle shift, and every inch of my body wants to feel her touch. I walk over to the couch and drop her onto the cushions. As she looks up at me—her eyes a collage of different browns—I feel my heart beat with life I haven't felt since I learned about Nick's death. Surely, throwing myself into life is the best way to honor the dead.

  Along with catching their killer, of course.

  Teresa unbuttons her black pants and I slide them down her legs. As I drop them on the floor, she unbuttons her white blouse and pulls it off. She's wearing a pink lace bra with rose designs all over it. It's not the most unique bra, but tonight it's the perfect mixture of classy feminine and sensual.

  I unbutton my shirt as she unclips her bra. My shirt and her bra fall to the floor at the same time. I undress the rest of the way until the only article of clothing left between us is her pink lace bikini underwear.

  She hooks her thumbs on the sides of her underwear and pulls it down to her ankle. I caress her thigh and keep my hand moving downward until it touches her bikini, and I pull it off her ankles, and let it fall to the floor.

  I am so aroused at this point that it takes all of my self-restraint to not take her as if I were a caveman. She raises her legs to give me space on the couch and I slide between them. I crawl up her so we're facing each other, and press my lips against hers, wanting to kiss her until my lips are raw.

  When I push into her, it feels like all of my pain is stripped away, and all I know is the sensation of her around me. As I increase my pace, she arches her hips. Her cheeks are pink and her lips are slightly parted as I gaze at her. I kiss the side of her neck, and sink deep into her. I grind against her clit. I feel her body tense underneath me and her chest rapidly rises and falls with her breathing.

  I kiss beside her ear. "I love you."

  "I love you." She echoes.

  Her words burst through me and I can feel myself about to explode. I thrust into her, each stroke sending me closer to nirvana, until I feel her walls convulse around me, she grips the sides of the couch cushion and an expression of complete and utter joy washes over her face. My cock shudders as I release my hot ecstasy in her.

  I kiss her again before sliding down between her and the back of the couch. The joy begins to ebb away as I slowly remember what we were talking about before.

  "Don't be sad," she murmurs.

  I nuzzle my face against her breast, kissing the side of it. I try to grasp happiness because happiness is right in front of me, her warm body keeping the cold sadness from infiltrating my head.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Aaron, 2015 (Friday morning)

  JUNIOR'S BODY IS splayed between his porch and the entrance of his house. There is blood spatter, but even most layman could tell that there's something wrong with how the blood sprayed out of his body.

  "The killer was close by the victim," Lyra Blair, the medical examiner, says as I step up to the scene. "That's why there's some spots where the blood should have hit the porch, but it didn't. The killer's body has some of the blood spatter on it."

  "Well, that's good, right?" I ask. "That means as long as they didn't get rid of their clothes, I can connect them to the murder."

  She shrugs. "If you killed someone, what's the first thing you would do?"

  I sigh. "Get rid of my clothes."

  I examine Junior's body—the blank eyes, the weird twist of his leg, and his lips slightly parted. There are three large bullet wounds—two to the chest and one to the neck. There's blood on his pant leg, but it's not from a wound. I squint at it. Somebody had written something in blood, but the rain had caused it to blur.

  "What does that say?" I ask. "Povot? No, there's a letter between the O and T. Is that an R or a B?"

  "You're not too good at word games, are you?" she asks.

  "No. I'm terrible at it," I tell her. "I usually give up after the third turn of Scrabble."

  "It says pervert."

  "Oh. That makes a lot more sense." I muse. "So…maybe the killer knew what Brianna knew."

  "Possibly," she says.

  I gaze back up at his chest. "Do you think the killer shot him three times because he…or she, I suppose, really hated Junior? Or did it just take that many shots to finish him off?"

  "Well, neither of the chest shots would have killed him instantly, so the killer could have just been impatient," she says. "I can't say for sure, but I would think the killer is shorter than him…quite a bit shorter. Maybe around my height?"

  "How tall are you?"

  "Five foot four," she says. "I'm only saying that because it seems that this chest shot doesn't have any angle…so the killer didn't have to point their gun down, and if someone is using the correct shooting stance…"

  She pretends to hold a pistol and aims it toward my chest. Junior is about an inch shorter than I am and Lyra's pretend shooting would hit me an inch below where one of Junior's bullet wounds is.

  "All right, so a short male or an average height female," I say, as she lowers her pretend weapon. "Do you think this is the same killer as the one who killed Brianna?"

  "I can't be sure. It's weird to have two shootings in Wyatt, even more weird that they're a few days apart, so because of that I would suspect the same killer but…it's a different gun," she says. "An
d it's a change in MO, isn't it? I mean, this is two different personalities at work. One shot from a distance, which indicates someone who is probably weaker than their victim, so they need the distance between them. The other shot from close range, which not only indicates that he…or she…wasn't afraid of Junior…he or she didn't mind seeing him suffer either."

  "Maybe it's two people working together."

  She shrugs. "I don't know. This whole town is going to hell."

  Greg runs up to the two of us. "So," he says, turning to me. "If this is the same killer, it could put a kink in our assumption that it was Junior who was doing this."

  "Yeah, just a small kink," I mutter

  "You talked to him yesterday, didn't you?" he asks. "Did he mention being afraid? Was there anybody else there?"

  I shake my head. "No. He was fine. He was alone."

  "Did you figure out if he was connected to Brianna's murder?" he asks.

  I shake my head again, but I keep looking down at Junior's body. If he didn't kill Nick, who did? Who else would have motive?

  "Do you think maybe Junior's sexual harassment could have nothing to do with this?" Greg asks. "Maybe someone has an issue with the Duff family."

  "The killer wrote pervert with Junior's blood," I say, pointing to Junior's pant leg.

  Greg glances at it and shrugs. "It could be to throw us off his tracks."

  "It would be weird to take Brianna out first, too," I say. "And technically, she's not even a Duff. She's a Cull."

  "Yeah, but that's just a name. Her mother is a Duff, which means that she's half of a Duff."

  I shake my head. "Maybe. We could check out if the restaurant had any issues and talk to Mrs. Cull."

  A light flashes as Lyra takes photos of Junior's body. She preserves his destroyed body in a photograph. Lyra took photographs of Nick in the fisherman hut, too. I can't imagine anything worse than looking through a camera and capturing death. Death lasts long enough that it doesn't need to be memorialized.

  I would do anything to forget.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Teresa, 2015 (Friday morning)

  SINCE I HAD MY fight with Aaron at my condominium, I've gone back to running like I used to before I met him—it's two miles to a local park, I stretch and take a breather at the park, and then I run back home. Today, I began my run, but the drizzle leftover from last night's rain had decided to become a squalling downpour that's still beating the leaves off the trees. So, I stopped at a gym that allowed me to pay a small fee to use it for a hour, and I ran on one of their treadmills.

  Let me just put it out there: I hate treadmills. There isn't the fresh air of running outside, there isn't anything to look out except sweaty sixty year olds pretending that a twenty-pound weight is heavy, and at the speed I set the treadmill, the whole machine shakes.

  I did not start my day well.

  When I get to the Anchorage FBI office, Donovan is just setting his computer bag and a cardboard drink carrier with two Styrofoam cups onto his desk.

  "Hey," I say. "Thank God it's Friday."

  "Yeah," he says. He holds out a cup of coffee for me.

  I raise any eyebrow. "What's this for?"

  "Maybe I'm just being friendly." He grins. "And I was hoping you wouldn't be too mad that I used my knowledge of your birthday against you."

  "I'm pretty sure forcing me to take a shot with you isn't too bad," I say, taking the cup. "But I will take the coffee. Thank you."

  "No problem," he says. "By the way, Rhoda wants to talk to both of us."

  I groan. "I wasn't investigating with Aaron. I stopped when she texted me."

  He shrugs. "I don't know what it's about, but she looked annoyed…then again, she usually looks annoyed."

  "Great."

  I lead the way to Rhoda's office. Her office is rather big, but it feels smaller because it's full of filing cabinets, a large white desk, and a massive bookshelf that protrudes from the wall. Rhoda, sitting behind her desk, doesn't take much space at all. She's a small woman, barely over five feet tall and thin with jet-black hair that's cut into a pixie-style. She would likely go unnoticed in most situations unless she was angry with you, in which case, even the strongest, biggest gang member would give her a wide berth.

  "Sit down." Rhoda gestures to the two white upholstered accent chairs in front of her desk.

  I know there's no way the Bureau would pay for them, so she must have bought them herself. I'm not sure if she wants the people to be comfortable or if she's just vain about how her office looks. Donovan and I sit down.

  "So, what do the two of you know about what's happening in Wyatt?" she asks.

  Donovan glances at me. Either he doesn't know anything or he figures I know more about it.

  "Um, Brianna Cull was killed with a rifle," I say. "The killer shot her from a distance. It could be connected to Junior, who was sexually harassing his staff, and Brianna was gathering evidence against him. It could also be connected to a second murder…the victim being Nick Arkelian. He was strangled, but the murder was made to look like a suicide. But…so far, there isn't any evidence toward any suspect, so the police haven't been able to arrest anybody."

  "Okay," Rhoda says. "Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

  I stare at her. "Uh…the good news?"

  "The good news is that we're getting involved. There's been a new murder—if it is connected to the other two—could have more clues that will help to decrease the suspect pool."

  "And the bad news?"

  "The victim was Patrick Duff Junior," she says. "So, you no longer have a top suspect."

  I gape at her. "I—we were so sure it was him."

  "Well, Chief Grant called me this morning to discuss the situation and he updated me on the case. He told me that the man who discovered the body of Brianna Cull, one Patrick Duff Junior, was attacked in his home and killed last night with three bullets that came from a pistol. That's three homicides in Wyatt within a week."

  "Wait," Donovan says. "Don't you think we're jumping the gun here? Teresa just said the second murder was a strangulation. How are we so sure it's connected to the other two?"

  "He was Aaron's foster son," I mutter.

  Rhoda shakes her head. "Aaron's call was a preliminary one—an advisory one—to give us a heads-up on the case, because the particulars suggested actions taken in an attempt to implicate a government official, Alaskan State Representative Walter LaPonte. LaPonte is announcing his run for the governorship on Sunday, and his office is getting nervous since Duff Junior was Mr. LaPonte's friend. The murder of Brianna Cull was also similar to the killing of Mr. LaPonte's sister, and with two murders that may be connected to a government official, we cannot be lax about this situation…And the medical examiner also concluded that the death of Nick Arkelian was a homicide…so, three homicides."

  "Of course," I say. "With three people dead, we'll need to look at it from every angle and—"

  "Teresa," Rhoda says. "You won't be investigating the case, if it becomes ours."

  "But I'm familiar with Wyatt. And their police force. It would make the most sense for me to take lead on this."

  "And you're involved with Chief Grant whose foster son was killed," she says. "You have too much invested. I do need to ask you about Chief Grant, though."

  "What about him?"

  "Last night. Were you with him?"

  "Yes," I say. "We were together all night."

  "What time did you two first get together last night?"

  "I don't know. It was…ten thirty? Eleven?"

  "Junior was killed around ten," she says.

  "Okay…"

  "Do you know that he went to talk to Patrick Duff?" she asks.

  "Yeah…" I say. "Duff was our sole suspect for Brianna's and Nick's murders."

  "Was he upset at Duff? Considering he thought he could have killed Nick."

  My jaw goes slack. "You don't seriously think that Aaron killed Duff, do you?"

&
nbsp; "I have to entertain the possibility," she says. "Teresa, you don't have children, but I have two and if one of them were murdered…I'd be looking to put a bullet in someone. It's a natural reaction. Chief Grant was the last person to see Patrick Duff Junior alive, so naturally…there was some suspicion within his police force."

  "He wouldn't have killed Duff. He would have wanted justice served."

  "Justice doesn't always mean the same thing to everyone," she says.

  I stand up. "He's not the killer." I turn to Donovan. "Can you back me up here?"

  Donovan makes a face of discontent and raises his shoulders and hands in a confused motion. "I don't know. I never talked to the man outside of a professional conversation. And Rhoda is right. It wouldn't be unnatural for a parent to attempt to avenge their child's death."

  I shake my head. "I'm done with this conversation."

  I walk out of Rhoda's office and neither one of them try to stop me. I sit down at my desk and try to take deep breaths. Donovan stays in Rhoda's office, likely having a similar conversation to the one Aaron and I had about Junior—focusing in on their main suspect.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Teresa, 2015 (Friday afternoon)

  MY FINGERS LINGER over the keyboard of my phone as I stare at Aaron's name. I've been debating on telling him that he's currently the main suspect in Junior's murder and there are people in his own police force who are suspicious of him, but I know if Rhoda finds out that I mentioned it to Aaron, I could get in a lot of trouble for interfering with the case. Now that I can't talk to him, my thoughts turn to him repeatedly, keeping me from focusing on researching some burglaries in Anchorage. It's hard to immerse yourself in shitty surveillance footage when your maybe ex-boyfriend could be getting interrogated at any moment.

  Our relationship is far from being repaired, but I enjoyed working with him on the Sarah Latham case and in the last couple of months, we had talked about our cases and helped each other out. Working with Aaron to solve crimes reminded me how fun it could be and that I chose this path for my life. It was enjoyable and our minds work well together—I was the one who was good at connecting facts and he was good at looking at things from different angles. I understood people's minds, and he understood people's hearts. Our work was productive. It wasn't just sex and avoiding talking about anything too deep.