by Cynthia Eden
Richard Spawn snapped a few more photos. Oh, but the plot was thickening nicely. He’d already sent in a story and some killer shots to his editor—those shots would be hitting the web any moment, and they’d air in the news blast that hit cable TV that night.
So fucking awesome.
A new kill had definitely livened things up in this town. Everyone was freaking the hell out. It was truly glorious to watch.
And speaking of watching . . .
He snapped another photo. Bailey and Asher were busy in front of the shop, so they hadn’t noticed the black-haired beauty who’d slipped out the back. Carla Drake, I see you. She jumped in her car and hightailed it out of there as if she were running from the devil himself. As she flew out of that place, he saw that she had a phone to her ear, and she seemed to be speaking frantically to someone.
Asher and Bailey had no freaking clue what was happening. No, they didn’t see her.
But I sure do.
He put his camera down on the passenger seat and cranked up his Jeep. He knew a big story when he saw one, and Carla Drake?
Hell, yes, she was newsworthy.
It was your cabin, Carla. You are in this mess up to your pretty neck.
He couldn’t wait to make her a star.
Asher shoved his phone back into his pocket. Bailey was too pale. Too pale by fucking far. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight. But when he moved toward her, Bailey stiffened.
I don’t know how to handle her.
“Bailey . . .” His voice came out too rough so he cleared his throat. “The sheriff wants us to keep Carla company until he arrives. Seems he already talked to her this morning and she stonewalled him, so he sure as hell has more questions for her now.” And so did Asher. A whole lot of questions.
Carla said she set that fire. She said she called the police.
But Asher wasn’t ready to believe her. Considering the woman had been covering up the truth about herself for months, he figured his mistrust was more than justified.
Bailey gave a brisk nod and squared her shoulders. She opened the art shop’s door again.
The bell jingled.
The heavy odor inside the shop seemed even stronger than before. Paint fumes? The scent stung Asher’s nose. Carla needed to crack a window in there. Ventilate the place better.
“Carla?” Bailey called out. “I’m sorry, but we have to talk. You could be in danger.”
No response.
“The sheriff is coming over,” Bailey said.
There was no quick rush of footsteps toward them.
“Carla?” Bailey edged closer to the back of the art shop. A big, colorful curtain separated the area at the rear. Bailey’s fingers closed around that curtain and she pulled it back.
But Carla wasn’t in the rear of the store. And the back door was cracked open, slightly ajar.
Hell. She ran.
Asher rushed forward and glanced outside. A small alley snaked behind the building and he raced down it. A quick turn to the right and he was in a parking lot—an empty lot.
Son of a bitch. Rookie mistake. Gabe was never going to let him live this one down at LOST. He’d let a woman’s tears distract him, and she’d gotten away.
Forget Gabe. Ana would give him hell over this shit.
He yanked out his phone and called Wyatt. When the new sheriff answered, Asher said, “Carla Drake bolted.”
“Fuck me.”
Exactly the way Asher felt.
“I’ll get deputies searching for her now. And I’ll send a team to the shop. I need to talk to her.”
Yeah, like Asher didn’t understand that. He wanted to talk to Carla a whole lot more, too. Asher knew what was happening. They had a runner. And unless they found Carla and stopped her . . . she’ll vanish.
“I’ll send your partner over there. Maybe she can help you figure out what the hell is happening.”
My partner? The twist in his gut told him just who that would be, who always had his back. He hung up the phone and turned back toward the alley.
“Asher.” Bailey stood there, her hands fisted at her sides. “There’s something you need to see inside the shop.”
Frowning, his steps quickened as he headed toward her. Bailey led the way back into the shop and he saw that she’d pulled the covering off two canvases in that back room.
And he repeated Wyatt’s words. “Fuck me.”
Because those images were blood-soaked. One canvas showed a woman on a bed, her long reddish blond hair matted with blood, her body showing the wounds from a knife’s deep cut. She lay sprawled on the old, sagging bed, her eyes closed, seemingly dead.
“I think that’s me,” Bailey whispered.
Asher fucking did, too. Rage built and twisted in him, nearly choking him as he stared at the first painting. You aren’t dead, sweetheart. You got out.
“Why would she paint that terrible image of me?” Bailey asked him.
Asher intended to find out just why the hell she’d done it. His gaze slid to the next image. This time, the shot was of a man—tall, with broad shoulders, and covered in darkness. A black ski mask—one that resembled a thick cloud more than anything else—hid his features. In his right hand, the man gripped a knife . . . a knife that dripped blood onto a wooden floor.
The killer.
The killer and the victim, a set of paintings that chilled Asher’s blood.
And Carla Drake had stood there, ordering them out of her shop? Carla was hiding secrets, dark and twisted secrets, and Asher was determined to discover them all.
Bailey turned then, stumbling toward the front of the shop. He hurried after her. “Bailey—wait—”
But then his nose twitched. In the back, he’d smelled the thick scent of paint. Heavy. But . . .
But there was something else. Something that had been nagging at him all along.
Asher looked up. For just an instant, he swore that he saw someone upstairs. A black shadow, running along the balcony up there. Asher tensed to go up—
And then he heard a whoosh. Loud and distinct and he saw the flash of fire racing down the stairs. The flames seemed to follow a trail and the thick scent in that place suddenly made terrible sense.
“Bailey!”
She’d looked back. She was right at the door. Almost out. Almost free but she turned back toward him and when he saw the horror on her face, Asher knew that she understood, too.
He leapt toward her. Grabbed her and they flew out of the shop. Flew out even as the flames erupted behind them. But it wasn’t just a surging fire, not anymore. It was a full-on detonation. The shop exploded and the glass from the windows flew outward.
Asher and Bailey hurtled toward the sidewalk. He covered her doing his damn best to shield her from the shards of flying glass. He felt the heat lance around his body, rolling right over him, and he yanked Bailey up, holding her tightly as he ran across the street with her in his arms. All around them, car alarms were shrieking, one right after the other. Men and women were running in the streets, shouting, ducking for cover.
And Asher held tight to Bailey. She was what mattered. And if they’d stayed inside that shop just a few minutes more . . .
We’d both be dead.
“What happened?” Bailey shook her head and stared up at him in shock. “It was . . . it was like a bomb just went off in there at the end.”
Asher looked over at the wreckage.
Gone.
Richard parked his car a few feet away from Carla’s. She’d gone to her house; not a very smart move. Her front door was slightly ajar. The woman must have hauled ass inside. What did she think she’d do? Get a bag together and get out of dodge?
Not happening.
Not until he got his story.
He killed the ignition and then he climbed out of his car. His fingers curled around his camera as he put one hip on his front fender and waited.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
She ran out of her house, a big bag slung over her shoulder. He lifted the camera and snapped a picture. “Going somewhere?”
Carla froze.
She didn’t flash him that fun, flirtatious smile—the smile she’d used down at the police station when she’d told him that of course, I’ll be happy to give you an interview. Just come by my shop today at three. You come by and I’ll give you the scoop of a lifetime.
He’d gone to her shop. And seen Bailey Jones.
Carla’s jaw hardened. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He shrugged and took another picture. “Why not? I thought we had a meeting.”
“At my shop. Not my house.”
“But you weren’t at the shop. Bailey Jones was. And I have to say . . . she seemed upset.” His finger pressed down to take another picture.
“Stop doing that,” Carla gritted out.
He grinned at her. “Can’t. It’s my job. And you’d be surprised by just how much these pictures go for.”
She lunged forward, attempting to grab the camera, but this wasn’t his first ball game. So he just lifted that camera high above his head and laughed. “No, baby, it doesn’t work like that.”
Her cheeks flamed red. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, I have a pretty good idea. I’m about to break a major story. I mean, the pieces are all there—everything points to you being important. Deputy Do-Right called you in to his office and then, bam, right after that Bailey Jones pays you a personal visit. As fast as I can blink, you’re running away from her, you’re packing a bag, and you sure seem ready to head out of town . . .” He gave a low whistle, but kept his camera out of her reach. “In my experience, a woman runs because she’s guilty or because she’s scared. Which one are you?”
Her lips pressed together.
“Or are you both?”
“I don’t have time for this.” She tried to step around him. He just moved with her, blocking her path with his body.
“I suggest you make time. Because if you don’t give me the interview you promised, well, then I’ll just decide to put my own take on the story. I’ll say what I think you did.”
Her eyes flashed at him. “You’re not a very nice person, are you, Spawn?”
“Never claimed to be.”
“Good.” She pressed her body close to his and he blinked in surprise at the seductive move. “That makes it easier to do this . . .” And he never even saw the knife coming. He just felt the hard slash of the blade as it cut into his abdomen. He staggered back from her, and his hands flew to his gushing wound.
A smile curved her lips as she held the knife in her hand.
“You crazy bitch!” His camera had crashed to the ground as he tried to stop the blood flow.
“I’ve been called worse,” Carla said, that grin stretching a bit. “Don’t worry, I didn’t hit anything vital . . . I don’t think.”
He was bleeding like a stuck pig!
“Maybe that can be a lesson to you. Screw your damn stories! Leave people alone!” She scooped up his camera and ran toward her car.
Fucking insane bitch.
Carla looked back at him. “No one controls me, not anymore. You’d better remember that.” Then she jumped into the car and the bitch left him there, bleeding. Too late, he tried to stagger after her. When she whipped her car back then spun it around, he realized that she would mow his ass down if he didn’t move.
Crazy. Absolutely insane.
He jumped to the side but the vehicle still clipped his hip.
She will pay.
Her tires squealed as she drove away.
The smoke billowed in the air. Firefighters raced to battle the flames, and water shot at the blazing inferno.
It was a fire that lit up the whole night sky. A fire that burned hot and bright and wild and . . .
Just like last time.
The fire raged in a frenzy, just like the blaze Bailey had witnessed before. She’d climbed out of that grave and seen the flames. The same.
“What in the fuck happened here?” Wyatt demanded as he charged toward her. Bailey was sitting in the back of an ambulance, the doors open so she could watch the scene. The EMT had just finished with her and when Wyatt came storming up, the guy gave a little nod, indicating that she could go.
“Thanks,” Bailey murmured to the EMT, then she hopped down. She had a few bruises and scrapes, but thanks to Asher, she’d been saved any serious injury.
“Bailey!” Wyatt put his hands around her shoulders. “What happened?”
“A fire,” she told him flatly. “A really big one.” Though she was sure he hadn’t been able to miss it.
“Bailey . . .” he growled.
“Where’s Asher?” a female voice asked. The question came from behind Wyatt, and his body blocked Bailey’s view of the woman speaking.
Who is she?
So Bailey just pulled away from him and craned her head so she could see the mystery speaker.
A woman with dark hair—hair the same shade as Asher’s. Her body was smaller than Bailey’s, more delicate. She wore jeans and a battered jacket, and her narrowed gaze was on Bailey.
“Asher,” the woman said again, more bite definitely in that name. “Where is he?”
Asher walked up behind the other woman, soot on his cheeks. “I’m right here, Ana. Don’t worry.”
Ana.
That was Asher’s twin?
Ana whirled toward him and she grabbed him close in a tight hug. “Don’t do this shit,” Bailey heard Ana snap at him. “Don’t make me come up to some insane blaze scene and not see you. That isn’t cool, Ash. Not cool at all.” She pushed him back. “And since when does a missing person’s case turn into this, anyway?”
Wyatt closed in on Bailey once again. “I am still waiting to hear what happened. I gave orders to hold the woman here—Jesus Christ, please don’t tell me she was inside when that building blew!”
“She wasn’t,” Asher said, voice curt. “But I think she planned for that building to go. The place was rigged. It wasn’t some accident. Hell, look at the way it went—fast and hot. A fireball that destroyed everything.”
Just like before.
Bailey could practically see those thoughts on Wyatt’s face. He was thinking the same thing that she was.
But . . .
“I did see someone, right before it blew.”
Wyatt’s brows shot up.
“It looked like a man. W-wearing a black ski mask.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “He was on the second floor of her art shop, and I saw him for just an instant. Asher was pretty much throwing me out of the shop—and saving my ass—so I didn’t get to look longer.”
Wyatt whirled toward Asher. “Did you see the guy, too?”
Asher hesitated a moment, then gave a grim nod. “Yes. I thought I did. A man, big, like she said. In black. But, hell, the guy would’ve only had seconds to get out.”
Bailey hugged herself even harder. “But if he was the one who set the place to explode, I’m sure he would’ve had a way out. I mean, Carla was gone. She—”
“Could have set a timer before she split,” Ana cut in to say. “And that way, Carla would make sure that she got out of there all right.”
Bailey wasn’t sure what had happened. Not exactly. “The place smelled wrong the whole time we were there. Like . . . like . . .”
“Like an accelerant had already been poured everywhere,” Asher finished. “And I think that’s just what the hell happened. Wyatt, you said you pulled her into your office earlier?”
“Yes.” Wyatt nodded. “But she told me jack shit.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Asher was standing close to his sister. “You could’ve rattled her, made her think her secret was coming out. So she rushed back here and got ready to torch the place.”
Only we arrived first. Bailey looked down at the scratches on her palms. She’d hit the cement pretty hard. “At the end, though, when I saw that gu
y . . . It was just a fire then, the flames racing. But the building just—it erupted after that.”
“Maybe the flames reached the central explosion point.” It was Ana who spoke now. “They followed the trail that had been left and then . . . boom. Everything was gone.”
Bailey shivered. Shivered, when the flames were still burning.
“I need an APB on this woman,” Wyatt said. He whirled away and called out for two nearby deputies.
Asher edged closer to Bailey. “You okay?”
“I’m alive. That’s a major bonus.” She licked her lips. “Thanks for saving me.”
His hand lifted and his fingers brushed over her cheek. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
Ana stiffened. “Uh, Ash . . .”
But Wyatt was already coming back. “Okay, I’ve got a team going to her house and word is spreading for everyone to be on the lookout for Carla Drake.”
Bailey’s gaze focused on the blaze. “She told us that she set the fire at the cabin.”
“So she has a history of arson,” Wyatt mumbled. “Great.”
“No, no.” Now Bailey was angry. And, yes, she was pissed at Carla but . . . “That fire saved my life out there at the cabin. It saved her life. She told us that she just wanted to be left alone, but I was the one who kept pushing. Maybe when you called her in to the station and then she saw me on her doorstep, maybe Carla realized her whole world was about to come tumbling down and she panicked. It does happen, you know. People panic.”
But Asher shook his head. “That fire could have killed us both. That’s not panic. That’s premeditation. And what about the guy? Where does that asshole fit into things? Because it sure as shit looked like he let her leave, then he was the one who set the blaze, with us inside.”
Bailey flinched. Yes, it had looked that way.
“An accomplice.” Ana nodded. “Maybe a lover? Someone who knows her secret and is covering for her, too?”
“I think she would’ve needed to tell someone the truth.” Bailey’s gaze flickered to the smoke that rose in the sky. “Otherwise, keeping that inside . . .” It would have hurt too much.
“The mistake is that you want to think that she’s like you.” Asher’s face appeared almost angry. “A victim who survived. But you saw those canvases, too, Bailey.”