by Lisa Gray
“I see. That’s unfortunate. A balanced family environment helps ground children who are confused.”
It certainly hadn’t helped Keir. Of course, he hadn’t been confused—just terrified. Desperate to move this along before his courage crumbled, he asked, “So, do you have any openings? I’d like to get him in as soon as possible.” Too eager! He sounded like he was trying to schedule a dental cleaning for little what’s-his-name. “I mean, no time like the present, right?” Now he was babbling! The truth was going to come out if he didn’t shut up, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Maybe you have other kids his age he could do therapy with, you know, like a buddy system?”
The reverend remained silent for a long moment.
Oh, crap. The man was on to him. Keir had ruined everything.
But oddly enough, when the reverend spoke again, all hint of reserve had left his tone. “Why, of course, Mr. Quinn. Why don’t you come in tonight, say around eight o’clock. I look forward to making your acquaintance.”
Shocked it had worked, Keir mumbled, “Um, okay. Eight o’clock. Thank you.”
He disconnected the call and almost slid off his chair in helpless relief. He’d done it. Barely. Now all he had to do was get through the next few hours hiding behind closed blinds and locked doors, then find the nerve to face a man who tormented children for a living.
Should be easy.
He groaned and hung his head.
How had he gotten himself into this?
Chapter 10
Stiff and weighted with disgust at his own stupidity, Riley groaned as he pried himself off the crate. He’d stared at Keir’s condo for hours, hoping the blinds would be raised or the door would open—any sign the man was okay. Or better yet, any sign he was angry enough to march back over and give Riley hell for being such an ass. Riley damn well deserved it for his shabby treatment of a…what was Keir exactly? A friend? One lunch didn’t make a solid friendship. Neighbor? Well, that was true enough, but too vague. Ah. The most accurate word was “victim.”
He buried his face in his hands, hiding from the realization that, yes, he really was a stalker, complete with his very own innocent victim. No corrupt politician or warlord or human trafficker here who might deserve to be treated like shit. Just a kind man, reaching out to a new neighbor. Yet Riley had bulldozed his way into the man’s personal life without a moment’s hesitation.
He glanced across the street again: all silence and stillness there. The wave of depression hit him hard. Riley had harbored such hopes for the two of them, but, God, they’d been doomed from the start, hadn’t they?
He retrieved the fucking cane, the thing that had triggered this latest and final rift between him and Keir. It always came back to his god-damned leg. Wasn’t just bones and joints and arteries crushed in that crumbling house—it was his whole life. He’d been certain he was going to die trapped under the pitiless weight of debris—the hot agony, the smell of his own blood, the dust filling his mouth and clogging his lungs. Still, he’d fought hard to live. Had he known survival meant being stripped of what made his life valuable, he might have made peace with dying.
An image of Yusuf’s irresistible wide grin filled his mind. He blinked a few times, fighting tears. Yusuf had died, and Riley hadn’t. He should be grateful for the reprieve. And he should be ashamed for feeling sorry for himself. What would Lucy say if she could see him now?
Lucy. He owed her a phone call—and so much more. Maybe he could lean on her a little longer, and she’d make him feel better about what he’d done. More likely she’d kick his ass for being such a fucking idiot. Might be just what he needed.
He abandoned his spy station and made his way to the living room. Slouching in the recliner, he pulled out his phone and dialed her number.
She answered on the first ring. “Riley! Finally! So, you’re all settled, and you’re inviting me to the housewarming? Excellent!” Her enthusiasm burst over him like a personal fireworks display—a reminder of just how much he counted on her tireless support. “How are you doing?”
“Hi, Luce.” He fought to keep his voice steady. “I’m okay.”
“That’s the shakiest ‘I’m okay’ I’ve heard since my granddaughter found out kittens have claws. What’s wrong?”
A few possible opening lines spun through his head, but he still couldn’t pin down where to start. Settling for brevity, he admitted, “I fucked up. Badly.”
“You’re a good man at heart, Riley. I’m sure whatever you did can’t be all that horrible.” Her voice was light and sweet and comforting. “Start with the new condo. Any issues there? Because I’ve known Maddie Prendergast for forty years. If she’s giving you grief, I’ll fix it.”
“No. The place is fine. Except I may have given Mrs. Prendergast a heart attack.”
“You what?” Her voice had risen a full octave.
He cringed at how childish it would sound. “I painted the front door a nice neon chartreuse.”
A long moment of silence was followed by an explosion of laughter. “You didn’t! Oh, Maddie must have lost her mind.” After a brief pause, she added, “But somehow I think you’re leaving out a few things—like the real problem?”
Just the sound of her laughter had lightened his mood. “Okay. I met someone who fascinates me. He’s unique, talented, and a really nice guy.”
“He sounds wonderful. Did you ask him out?”
“No. I yelled at him, insulted him, tried to extort him, stalked him, and pretty much convinced the man I’m a raving maniac. As things stand now, I think he might be right.”
“Hang on, I need a glass of wine for this.” He heard her set down the phone.
Feeling a little hopeful, he shifted in the chair, straightening his spine. Maybe she could come up with a way to untangle the mess he’d made. If nothing else, it felt good to share his story.
A few moments later, she returned. “Okay, I’m ready. Now start from the beginning.”
He spent the next half hour explaining his many mistakes, bad ideas, and possible crimes. Put together like that in one long tale, it all sounded so much worse. By the end, he felt lower than pond scum in a rock quarry, but Lucy remained her ever-optimistic self.
“Keir sounds delightful. Just perfect for you. And despite everything, he keeps coming back, so he must like you. And since you’re stalking him, you’d know if there was any competition.”
“Yeah.” He winced at her easy acceptance of the fact he was a stalker. “As far as I know, he’s not involved with anyone. But I don’t think I can get him to listen to me now unless…” He paused as his mind started churning out plans. “Maybe I could ask around, find out where he buys his coffee, and be there when he arrives. Or I could pretend I saw a burglar at his place.”
“More tricks? Absolutely not! You have to be yourself.”
“Myself isn’t as appealing as it used to be.” That was for damned sure. Riley pounded one fist on the arm of the chair in frustration. “I used to just sweep a guy off his feet and dazzle him with how good I was at solving problems and bringing the truth to light. Hell, I could change the world.” He huffed out a bitter laugh. “Look at me now—making it up a flight of stairs counts as a big accomplishment.” He groaned at how impossible it all seemed. “Maybe I should just bail.”
“So that’s your solution? Running?”
Self-pity surging, he sniped, “Running isn’t in my skill set anymore.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them. No way was she going to let that pass.
“You know perfectly well what I mean, young man.” She could still deliver the crisp, no-nonsense tone of annoyed teacher reprimanding a smart-ass student.
“I do. Sorry.”
“I ask because if all these machinations are to get you laid and then move on, you need to choose someone else. Keir sounds like he has roots there. Treating him like that would wound him and diminish his place in the community.”
She was right. Keir belonged; it was his home. “It’s not
about getting laid. There’s something special about Keir. He’s unique. That’s why losing my chance with him hurts so much.”
“Then prove to him you’re worth it. Start by disabling the ‘spy station.’ Burn everything. Show him the ashes.”
Riley sighed. “He’d probably assume I’m an arsonist.”
Her laughter rang out, oddly cheering Riley. “He knows you’re a photojournalist, doesn’t he?”
Regret lanced through him. “I haven’t told him because that isn’t what I am anymore.”
“It’s true your career had taken a turn. But you’re an exceptional photographer wherever you’re snapping pictures. Show him your awards. Prove to him you’re legit. That’s explanation enough to justify taking his picture.”
She just might have a point. Keir would understand a photographer’s compulsion to see life through the camera lens.
“I think your best strategy is an honest appeal for help. Tell him you need him, because, honey, believe me, you do.”
His knee-jerk reaction was to assert he was fine on his own. But in view of how spectacularly he’d fucked everything up, it seemed pretty indefensible. So what did he most need help with? The answer was easy—to matter again. It was that simple. Could Keir give him that? “How do I get him to talk to me? He’s gone into hiding.”
“Well, one way might be to get involved in his community. Put down some roots. Ditch the nomadic lifestyle for good, and show him you’re in it for the long haul. Given his lifestyle growing up, Keir might be the kind of guy who’d find stability attractive.”
“Hmm. Stability? Roots?” It sounded horrible. Permanent ties had never been his thing. “I guess I could give it a shot.” The half-hearted capitulation in his voice had her chuckling.
“I think you’ll survive. And if nothing else works, you could get him a kitten. My granddaughter might be willing to part with hers.”
At least that made him smile. “I’ll save it as a last resort.”
“So, do you still need to talk, or are you okay?”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about, but I’m fine.”
“Good. Because I have a date tonight. At my age, I can’t turn down any decent offers. So get your brain working, and make a plan. But no tricks.”
“No tricks. I promise. Have a good time tonight. Bye, Luce. And thanks.” He disconnected the call.
He racked his brain for straightforward, no-trick ways to get through to Keir, but came up dry. Finally noticing the deepening gloom, he realized the day was just about over. He shivered in the chill breeze blowing into the room. Time to close the windows. He made his way through the condo, locking up for the night.
In the kitchen, he paused to look out the western-facing window. Enough light remained to see black clouds massing, and they looked like trouble. Could be a good thing. He needed something to blow the bullshit out of his head. A rousing storm might shake loose some ideas on how to break through Keir’s resistance.
Something had better, or Riley was going to lose the man.
Chapter 11
Keir slipped out the back door and pocketed the spare key he kept hidden in a flower pot. It was better to be certain no one would get in uninvited. He walked behind the row of condos until he reached the next block, then moved out to the street. The wind had strengthened, spitting icy rain in sharp bursts. Hiding his face from the sting, he hunched his shoulders and lowered his head.
As he walked to his appointment, he tried maintaining a steady, resolute pace in the hope it would boost his confidence. It didn’t. His sense of dread billowed out the closer he got to his goal. Some hero!
At the church, he hesitated outside the arched double doors. He could still turn back, couldn’t he?
Not if he wanted to live with himself.
He wavered until a crack of thunder spurred him to open the door and scoot inside.
Shadows and the smell of dying flowers filled the vestibule, but the soft light of the sanctuary beckoned. He took a few steps in and paused to look around. The room lay deserted. The red velvet cushions lining the pews matched tiered shelves of ruby glass candleholders on either side of the room. The soft, flickering candlelight and the scent of lemon furniture polish should have been soothing. Keir couldn’t suppress the shudders sprinting down his spine.
Fists clenched in determination, he forced his feet to take one step after another, advancing along the center aisle toward the altar. With ten paces left to go, his courage fled. He pivoted to join it but froze when a booming voice echoed from the shadows of the choir loft.
“Hello! You must be Riley Quinn. I’ll be right down.”
Keir stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. After a moment, he relaxed his hands and shook the pins and needles from them. Taking long, slow breaths, he ordered himself to keep calm and play his role.
A man sporting a hungry grin that showcased a set of yellowed dentures appeared from a side door. In his blue cardigan and wire-rimmed glasses, he seemed harmless, but Keir wasn’t fooled. This was a man who profited off twisting the minds of helpless children.
“Welcome! I’m Reverend Alfred Pritchard. You’re right on time. I appreciate punctuality.”
So did the Nazis. Stretching his lips into a smile, Keir answered, “Thanks for meeting with me so soon.”
“My pleasure. Now, please come along. I’m eager to show you our therapy rooms.” The grin hadn’t diminished one little bit; it was unnerving. But not as unnerving as having the man dig his fingers into Keir’s elbow and hustle him through the sanctuary. Short of kicking and punching his way free, Keir had no choice but to accompany him through the doorway and down a flight of stairs. They walked through a narrow shadow-filled hallway and stopped at a closed door marked with the innocuous name of “Classroom 1.”
The reverend opened the door and gestured for Keir to enter. “In here, please.” The fixed grin had finally faded, replaced by a look of cunning.
Instincts screamed at Keir to run, but he didn’t react fast enough. The reverend placed a hand on the small of Keir’s back and shoved him into the room.
Keir stumbled, but recovered before he fell, and looked around. Not a dungeon. Just a classroom with rows of tables and chairs and a lectern at the front. What didn’t belong in a classroom were the three beefy men facing him. The smallest of them, with arms the size of sewer pipes, advanced on him. Keir turned to escape, but the other two hurried to block him, standing between him and the door.
Reverend Pritchard approached the circle they’d created and faced Keir. “Hand it over.”
Keir’s mind went blank as he stared at the angry, tight-lipped face. “Huh?”
Enunciating his words with care, the man repeated, “The camera. Hand it over.”
They thought he was filming them? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The reverend released an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I tried to be polite, but we’ll do it your way.” He gestured to his minions. “Search him.”
Struggling proved useless against the three behemoths manhandling him. They removed his jacket and shirt, checked them carefully for button cameras, and, having found nothing, stopped for instructions. Pritchard motioned for them to continue, and two of them lifted Keir. The third man yanked off Keir’s shoes and socks.
Until then, Keir had been balanced on the edge of control, hanging on by his fingertips, believing they’d be satisfied when they realized he wasn’t recording them.
But then one of them unbuckled Keir’s belt.
Keir exploded into a twisting, writhing mass of panic. Horrific images of gang rape filled his brain, ripping away all sense of reason. He thrashed and punched wildly, making contact with a nose. That man howled and dropped Keir’s left arm. The second man also lost his grip, dropping the other arm. With his feet still held in the air, Keir’s weight rocketed him down head first. His temple hit the floor, and his glasses flew off and skittered away.
The thug still holding his feet managed to strip o
ff Keir’s jeans before letting the rest of him crash to the floor.
Virtually blind, and wearing nothing but boxers, Keir groped with both hands in a desperate search for his glasses. Without them he was defenseless and had no hope of protecting himself. In the midst of his frantic search, he heard the crisp crunch of lens and frames disintegrating under a heavy boot. A low moan escaped his throat as he curled up on the floor, trying to shield himself. He was at their mercy now.
But the attack he expected never came.
Instead, the reverend snapped, “Enough, boys! Rick, you okay?”
“Yeah. The little creep bloodied my nose, but no permanent damage.”
“Find anything in his pockets?”
“No, Reverend. Just wallet, phone, and keys.”
“All right, help our visitor stand.”
Rough hands hauled up Keir. He struggled to regain his balance, bare feet at last finding purchase on the cold linoleum.
“You present a dilemma for me, Mr. Quinn. I don’t like dilemmas.” The reverend heaved a deep sigh. “I have to admit you’re not wearing a wire or one of those buttonhole cameras like I expected. And that’s all to your credit. But you did enter my church under false pretenses. I assume you were planning some incendiary photo essay to win yourself another award?”
The reverend was nothing more than a vague blur, but Keir nodded his agreement. Truth was, Keir would have confessed to being a Russian ballerina if it meant getting out of there unharmed.
“I could have you arrested. Or hire a lawyer and sue you. But you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? After all, publicity’s your bread and butter.”
That didn’t sound like a question he was supposed to answer, so Keir remained silent. Explaining his actual motives would mean dragging Ethan into it, and that might make things worse for everybody.
“So here’s what I’m going to do.”
Keir held his breath.
“Boys, give the man his pants.”
Keir almost sobbed in relief when his jeans hit his chest. He grabbed them and shakily pulled them on, feeling a tiny bit safer.