Midnight Betrayal

by Leigh, Melinda

  But damn, this one had turned out to be one fine ride.

  “I can’t believe Jaynie’s having a baby.” Pat sniffed. “And she’s getting married at Christmastime.”

  “Me either.” Conor drove onto Oregon Avenue. The two cops who’d been sitting in the bar all night got into their unmarked car and followed him. “Maybe they should move the wedding date up. Be nice if she were married before she starts to look pregnant.” He wasn’t sure why that popped into his head and out of his mouth. Conor wasn’t exactly fixated on propriety. But there’d been a time when appearances mattered, like when the social worker showed up for a home visit to make sure Pat and Conor had a good handle on their younger siblings. Most of the time they hadn’t, but they’d faked it pretty well. All four of the Sullivan siblings were decent liars, which probably shouldn’t be considered an attribute.

  Pat waved off his comment. “Aw, she’s happy. Who the hell cares?”

  “As usual, you’re right.” Conor laughed, but he didn’t feel the humor. An inexplicable sadness lodged in his bones tonight, a torrent of dissatisfaction that had been building to a crescendo inside him for months.

  It felt disturbingly like self-pity.

  Was he jealous of his three siblings’ happiness? Because if he was, that was just lame. Lame and inexcusable. He really needed to get his own life. He and his siblings had suffered the same tragedy. They’d moved on. Why hadn’t he?

  “She’s all grown up. She has Reed. She doesn’t need us anymore.”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to be, Pat.” Did parents feel this jumble of emotions when their kids got married and had kids? How could he be sad and happy at the same time?

  “And Danny’s all settled up in Maine with Mandy.” Pat sighed heavily. Alcohol made his brother emotional. “You’re the last holdout, Conor.”

  “Uh-huh.” Do not engage.

  “I’m serious.” Pat hiccupped. “You need a wife.”

  Conor made another noncommittal sound and made a mental note that his brother’s new cutoff was three drinks, two if he was rolling out the scotch like he had tonight to celebrate Jayne’s news.

  “How’s your curator?” Pat asked.

  “Fine.” Conor wasn’t going anywhere near a conversation about Louisa with a drunken and sentimental Pat.

  Pat glanced in the side mirror. “The cops are behind us. It’s a fucking parade. Have you heard from Damian?”

  “He says they’re waiting for the DNA test results.” Conor turned down a narrow side street and navigated the sports car around a fallen garbage can. “I’ve seen them following me.” Conor assumed they were always nearby, even if he couldn’t see them.

  “The test results will prove you’re innocent,” Pat said.

  Conor didn’t respond. The long hair they’d found in his apartment was Zoe’s, but the blood wasn’t hers. How would that play out?

  He was glad to pull up in front of Pat and Leena’s small piece of urban bliss. Like the family it housed, the brick row home exuded chaos and contentedness. The narrow front yard held a driveway barely big enough for a minivan and an equal-size strip of grass. A Big Wheel was upended on the walk, its tires in the air like a dog that wanted its belly rubbed.

  “We’re here.” Thank God. Conor parked at the curb.

  Pat sobered. “Leena’s going to be pissed.”

  “Probably,” Conor said just to make Pat sweat and hopefully take his mind off Conor’s life. Pat might have a foot of height and a hundred pounds on his wife, but Leena ran the show. No question. Though she wouldn’t give his brother a hard time. Not tonight. She knew how deeply Jayne’s news had affected him. If Pat were sober, he’d know Leena had his back when it mattered, but those shots of scotch had warped his perspective, as liquor tended to do.

  Pat wove his way up the walk. Following him, Conor grabbed the plastic trike, righted it, and set it on the porch under the eave. Leena already had the door open. A toy guitar dangled from her fingertips, and wet patches covered the front of her shorts and T-shirt. Bath time had been recently completed, and she was still in the clutter-clearing phase of the evening that followed what she called lockdown rather than bedtime.

  She propped a hand on her hip and gave her husband a mock admonishment. “Celebrate much?”

  Hoisting himself off the white wrought-iron railing, Pat mumbled something that sounded like “love you” and leaned over to give his wife a kiss.

  “Love you too. Get inside before you fall down.” Leena waved her hand in front of her face. “Oh geez, Conor, you let him drink scotch?”

  “Sorry, Leena.” Conor steered Pat over the threshold and into the living room. Pat took three crooked steps across the Berber and stretched out on the living room sofa as if he couldn’t possibly walk another step.

  Conor gave his sister-in-law a peck on the cheek. “He’s all yours.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Grinning, Leena closed the front door. Strands of her dark hair had escaped its ponytail. A damp lock fell over her eye, and she pushed it behind her ear. A wiggly mass of chocolate-colored fur, their new Labrador puppy, yapped and wagged from the other side of a gate across the doorway to the kitchen.

  “How’s Killer?”

  “He’s a good boy. Thankfully, crayons aren’t toxic.” Leena went to the gate and scratched the pup’s head. “Are you sure you don’t want a puppy? There are still two left.”

  “Positive.” Conor thought of the dog currently sleeping in Louisa’s bed. Kirra should stay there. “My apartment’s too small, and I’m never in it.”

  “A dog would be good company. You spend too much time alone.”

  “Alone? I’m never alone. I’m always in the bar.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  A giggle drifted down the stairwell that ran along the living room wall. Someone was still up.

  Leena dropped the plastic guitar into an open bin in the corner, walked to the base of the steps, and cupped a hand around her mouth. “Don’t make me come up there.”

  Silence.

  Yep. No question. Leena was the boss.

  “You need help getting him upstairs?”

  “Like we could get him up those steps.” Leena laughed. “He’s fine where he is.” She had a point. The stairwell was narrow and steep, barely enough room for Pat when he was steady on his feet. “Tomorrow’s backache will remind him why he isn’t much of a drinker,” Leena said without the faintest trace of pity.

  “No doubt.”

  “The kids are obviously still awake if you want to pop up and say good night.” She pulled an afghan off the back of the couch and tucked it around her husband. Her hand gave his square jaw a quick, loving stroke. A snore ripped through the room.

  Normally, Conor would like nothing better than a round of hugs from his niece and nephews, but tonight the thought of their energetic affection hollowed out his chest. Why? What had changed? Why did Jayne’s pregnancy make Conor nostalgic? Did it have something to do with Louisa?

  The only thing he knew for certain tonight was that he was too tired and too strung out about the missing girl and the police investigation to analyze his love life.

  “I really have to get back to the bar.” Conor turned toward the door, then paused, his gaze drifting toward his brother. “Is Pat OK?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “He got all choked up at Jayne’s news.”

  “He’s happy, but at the same time, the news made him feel older, less needed, like that chapter in his life is closed. You and Pat spent the last two decades acting more like parents than siblings.” Leena’s dark eyes zeroed in on Conor’s like X-ray vision. “How are you dealing with Jayne’s news? You raised her as much as Pat did.”

  “Fine. Pat did most of the parenting.”

  “You always do that.”

  “Do what?” Conor eased backward,
toward the door. He should have kept his mouth shut.

  “Brush off the credit.” Leena closed the distance between them and poked him in the chest with one finger. She might as well have used a knife. “He couldn’t have done it without you, and you know it.”

  Yeah. Leena saw right through him. Conor took a step sideways. “I’m thrilled for Jaynie.”

  “Conor . . .” She shook her head. “You haven’t been yourself all summer. Talk to me. Pat said you have a new girlfriend?”

  “She’s not really a girlfriend.”

  “What is she?”

  Good question. “I don’t know. She’s wrapped up in the police investigation.”

  Leena put her hand on his biceps. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m innocent.”

  “Duh.” Leena rolled her eyes. “That isn’t what I asked you.”

  “Everything will be OK.” He leaned over and gave his sister-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good luck with Snorezilla. Love ya, Leena.” Conor bolted, closing the door behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Leena or anyone else about his mood. He wanted what Pat currently had—oblivion, at least for a short time. But he had a business to run. Only one Sullivan could be incapacitated at a time.

  He strode out on the sidewalk, his boot heels ringing on concrete covered with chalk drawings of rainbows. Walking promoted thinking, another thing he was avoiding, and he was glad to slide back into the Porsche.

  Conor lucked out and found a spot at the curb around the corner from the bar. He cut through the alley toward the back door. Back to the bar. Back to work. But his mind was on Pat’s family.

  All Conor wanted was a simple life. He’d always thought he’d end up like Pat, with a wife and kids and a cramped but happy house.

  Barbara’s betrayal had floored him.

  She’d come into the bar and pursued him with the single-minded focus of an alley cat chasing a rat. Why hadn’t he seen her true predatory nature? She’d been sexy, wild, and always eager for him. They’d spent most of that summer in his bed. Probably if the relationship had gone on, he’d have realized it was nothing but sex. But at the time, the overabundance of sex hadn’t promoted deep introspection.

  Even more shocking than the husband walking into the bar and calmly informing Conor that he was sleeping with his wife was her reaction. Unwilling to compromise the lifestyle her wealthy husband provided, Barbara had broken it off with Conor with barely an it was fun while it lasted shrug.

  Looking back on it now, with the perspective of time and distance, everything they’d had suddenly looked cheap and sleazy.

  Conor hadn’t been tempted to start a new relationship since, until he’d met Louisa. Unfortunately, he might not have the time to find out what could happen between them. The police would get the test results back in a few more days. What would happen then? Would they arrest him? Did they even have any other serious suspects? And more importantly, was Zoe still alive?

  16

  At this point in the game, my biggest concern was that someone would discover my captive. Though I’d have heard about it. An explosion would likely make the evening news.

  After a careful cruise through the neighborhood, I parked the old sedan in front of the building. The streetlamp overhead was out, but the harvest moon shone from a clear sky, its faint orange tint casting a sepia glow over the desolate block. I hadn’t seen a single soul on my reconnaissance. The area was so empty the streets could be used as the set for an urban apocalypse film.

  With gloved hands, I took my tool bag from the trunk and went inside, careful of the footing. After clicking on my flashlight, I edged my way to the stairwell. A board gave way under my shoe. With a quick grab, I spared myself an ankle-breaking plunge into the basement. At the top of the steps, I examined my trip wire. The booby trap was undisturbed. Removing the trip wire was delicate business. Finished, I descended.

  The only inhabitant was the one I’d left there. I played the beam of my flashlight over her face. Naked, she lay curled on her side on the floor against the back wall, her hands cuffed behind her back and fastened to a pipe. Her eyes and nose had leaked all over the duct tape on her mouth, the tears and snot drying to a cracked white film on her skin. Blood crusted across the wounds on her thighs. The puddle of urine had dried to a brown stain on the concrete.

  I was definitely done with her.

  Over the mess on her face, her gaze still pleaded. But as I stood in the doorway, truth overtook the faint glimmer of hope and stomped it into the ground.

  She knew this was it.

  Dropping the bag at my feet, I knelt and pulled out the knife. Moving behind her to avoid the initial gush, I raised the weapon. She slid sideways, making the angle difficult.

  “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” I said, though secretly wishing she would do just that.

  I reached for her chin to hold her head and neck still. She thrashed hard for someone dehydrated and weak. After the last experience, I’d only allowed ten minutes for the actual death. But she fought considerably harder than my first, using her bound legs as a counterweight to fling her body sideways.

  I stepped on her head to pin it to the concrete. She twisted, but my weight immobilized her. I slashed the knife across the stretched, white skin of her neck. A low moan seeped from her lips as blood spurted in even pulses across the concrete. Her body twitched; fear clouded her eyes.

  I moved my foot from her head. Her eyes met mine. Life faded from her gaze slowly, as if her soul clung with desperate fingertips to its physical embodiment.

  I had caused this. I was in control. A strange and powerful surge of energy flooded me. This was a proper climax. No failure, no disappointment. I watched the blood drain until her chest deflated and her opaque, dead eyes lost focus, all because of me.

  Note to self: the will to live is variable, and adequate time must be allowed even if it might not always be needed.

  But what if the killing took longer? How would that feel? To draw out the experience, to watch the panic flutter in her pupils? What if she begged for death and I withheld it?

  All interesting questions that could be explored at another time. For now, I’d stick to my predetermined schedule. But maybe I could experiment a little with the next one.

  After carving the spiral on her abdomen, I lined up the rest of my supplies. Paper, kindling, gasoline, matches. Right on schedule. Paying close attention to detail, I proceeded to the next step.

  17

  Louisa waited just inside the door, watching raindrops roll down the glass. Conor’s Porsche pulled up to the curb. She went out, popping up her umbrella as she ran for the street. A fine drizzle amplified the scent of falling leaves. She climbed into the passenger seat, shook the umbrella, and closed the car door.

  “How do you run in those shoes?” Conor eyed her pumps.

  “It isn’t easy.” Her toes had felt the quick jog across the sidewalk.

  “I still don’t get why you wear shoes that aren’t comfortable.”

  She looked down at the pretty, nude, patent leather Pradas. “Because I like them.”

  Shaking his head, Conor eased into traffic.

  A tractor-trailer rattled past as he took the ramp for the Schuylkill Expressway, nicknamed the Sure Kill Expressway by Philadelphia residents for a reason. A bus driver blew his horn as Conor merged into traffic and drove toward University City. He reached behind the seat and handed her a Styrofoam box.

  She lifted the lid. He’d brought her a sandwich. “What’s this?”

  “Turkey club. This is the third lunch you’ve missed this week.”

  “Thank you.” She took a small bite. Her stomach approved.

  “You’re welcome. Now eat,” he ordered.

  She raised a brow at his bossy tone, but he ignored her. She finished the sandwich in a few impolitely large b
ites. She opened the bottle of water he handed her. “Are the police following you today?”

  “Probably. Black-and-whites stand out, but sometimes the unmarked cars are hard to spot.” Conor sighed. “I just assume they’re there all the time.”

  He parked at the curb a few units away from Zoe and Isa’s apartment. “Be careful.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Louisa opened the car door and popped her umbrella as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. She hurried to the covered front porch and scanned the list of names. She rang the intercom for apartment 3B. Nothing. She pressed the buzzer again.

  “Who is it?” a sleepy and slightly testy voice asked.

  Gotcha. “Hello, Isa. It’s Dr. Hancock.”

  After a few seconds of silence, the voice mumbled something incoherent. With a faint buzz, the door lock clicked. Louisa went into the foyer and went up the two flights of dark, wooden steps to the third-floor landing. A girl in pajamas and a camisole held the door open. Her brown hair was pulled back in a sloppy tail, her face devoid of makeup, her eyes wary and irritated. She hadn’t expected Louisa’s visit, and she wasn’t happy about it.

  Louisa stepped inside. “I’m Dr. Hancock.”

  “I’m Isa.” She rubbed a hand over her face.

  “I’m sorry I woke you.” Louisa crossed the threshold. The door opened into a cramped living room and kitchenette combination. Squeezed between the couch and the kitchen counter was a round laminate table covered with books and papers.

  “It’s OK.” Isa yawned. “I have a ton of research to do anyway.”

  “Late night?”

  “Yeah. I’m working on a project for the Pendleton grant.”

  “Congratulations,” Louisa said. “That’s a lot of work.”

  Isa smiled. “It is, but I’ll power through it.”

  “Good attitude.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Zoe.”

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you. The police were already here. I told them everything I knew. They searched her room and everything.” Isa nodded toward a closed door off the living room.