by Cynthia Eden
And he made her temples throb.
“I was hoping,” Paul confessed quietly, “that you would soon realize that part of your healing process involved helping others, too. It would come full circle with your therapy, of course. You give to other wounded individuals, you tell them your story, and in doing so, you heal not just yourself . . . but everyone who—”
“Right, Doc,” Asher cut in curtly. “So you do want her for the book.”
“I am only taking volunteers for my book,” Paul gritted back. “I merely wanted to give Bailey the option of participating. After all, she’s the one who told me, time and time again, about her need to balance life’s scales.”
Balance the scales. Get rid of the guilt. “You manipulating asshole,” Bailey spat.
Paul backed up a step.
“I’m not doing your book. Forget it.”
“Bailey!” Now Paul appeared distraught. “We can help others. Teach them how to be stronger and how to overcome life’s everyday obstacles.”
Asher’s laughter was rough. “I don’t think a serial-killer attack counts in the ‘everyday obstacle’ column, Doc.”
No, not even close.
Paul’s cheeks flushed. “You and Carla Drake—the two of you would be perfect for the book. Two different women. Two different coping strategies.”
“How do you know how Carla coped?” Asher wanted to know.
Paul waved that away. “She must have coped. Otherwise, she would have had a breakdown over the last few months. The mind can be a very fragile thing, especially after such a traumatic ordeal.” Now his head swung toward Asher. “I would think you, of all people, understood the aftereffects of a situation like this one.”
Asher’s brows climbed.
“The news included a segment on your past.” Paul’s voice dropped sympathetically. “Asher Young. The name actually clicked for me as soon as the reporter said it, but then the guy showed a clip of you and your sister being led into a hospital after your own abduction. You had to kill the two men who held you, correct? What that must have done to your young mind—”
A muscle jerked along Asher’s jaw. His eyes glinted with fury.
“Get out,” Bailey snapped, surging forward. Hell—just what all had been in that news story? “You need to leave, now.” And to think, she’d turned to this guy for help during her darkest time.
I was seeing him long before the Death Angel came into my life. Paul was supposed to help me deal with the loss of my parents. He was supposed to help me get back to normal.
She didn’t even know what normal was any longer. Bailey stared into Paul’s eyes and said, very clearly, “We’re done, and you need to get out of my house.”
“But I could include Asher and Ana’s story in my book!”
He hadn’t just said that.
She shook her head, denying it but . . . he had.
“You think you’ve just hit some kind of pay dirt.” Asher stared at him with hard, glinting eyes. “Right?”
“The fact that the two of you . . .” Paul’s gaze darted between Asher and Bailey. “That you’ve come together—it’s classic survivor instinct. Look for someone else who is damaged, see the same weakness and try to—”
Asher’s hand locked around Paul’s shoulder. “Bailey isn’t fucking damaged, and if you think I’m weak or that she is”—now his laughter held a cold, almost evil note—“then you are sorely mistaken.”
Paul blinked quickly. “I—I meant . . . I meant you were responding to the pain and—”
“I don’t give a shit what you meant. Bailey said leave, so I’m throwing your ass out now.” And he steered the shrink right out the door.
“Bailey!”
“I think our sessions are over,” Bailey said, shaking her head. “Good-bye, Dr. Leigh.” Asher came back inside, standing just behind her. Bailey held Paul’s shocked gaze for an instant more, then she slammed the door shut in his face.
A book?
What an asshole. Slamming that door had felt so incredibly good.
“You okay?” Asher asked her.
No, she wasn’t even close to okay. “I told him . . . things.” Secrets. Confessions. “Now all that will wind up in a book? I’ve already been on display enough for the world.”
If possible, Asher’s face tightened even more. “Fuck him. He can’t write anything about you, Bailey. If he tries, we’ll sue his ass.”
“I thought I could trust him.”
Asher pulled her closer. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure nothing happens.”
If only things were really that simple.
A gold mine. He was seriously sitting on a freaking gold mine, and Bailey thought he was going to walk away?
Paul Leigh slammed his car door and hurried toward the elevator. His footsteps echoed in the parking garage.
Bailey Jones. Carla Drake. And now . . . Ana and Asher Young. Like gifts from God. His book was going to be packed with survival stories. Brutal firsthand accounts that would shock and transform readers. He could already see this book as a damn bestseller. It was time for him to make his mark on the world. All of his years of careful research, all of his painstaking experiments. This will be the culmination for me.
He’d studied serial killers. Watched victims. Learned and put himself right in firsthand situations so that he could fully experience the emotional traumas. No one understood serial killers and their victims the way he did. No fucking one.
And she thought he was going to walk away from that story?
Hell the fuck no. Bailey Jones did not get him, not at all. Pity. He’d done so much for her. All that she had—all of her strength—it was his doing.
The bitch wasn’t even grateful.
She would participate in the book. They all would. He’d make them.
His thumb pressed into the button near the elevator, his mind spinning. He could fix this situation. Bring Bailey around. He’d always been good at handling her.
He’d messed up at her house. Been overeager. It was the news story. It had put him on edge.
I’ll do better next time. I know how to work Bailey. How to get her to do exactly what I need . . .
The elevator doors slid open. He walked inside, his head down as he thought—
And the knife went straight into his side. He could feel the cut, feel the skin and muscles give way, and the pain came immediately—a cold burn, not a hot one. Shock flooded through him and he looked up. “Wh-what—”
“Hello, Dr. Leigh.” The knife slid out of him.
He just stared, numbly. Behind him, he heard the elevator doors close.
“You think you understand serial killers, don’t you? You think you are so fucking smart and strong. An unstoppable force.”
Paul’s hand had risen to cover his bleeding side. The blood pumped out so fast.
The knife hit him again. He hadn’t even tried to deflect the attack. He’d been—
Numb. Shocked. This can’t be happening. Not to me. Not me.
“But seeing the experience from someone else’s eyes isn’t the same as living through an attack.”
The knife made a slushing sound as it slid from his body.
And finally—finally he tried to attack. Paul grabbed for the knife, but it sliced down in a fast chop and the tips of his fingers—
“Ahh!” Paul screamed.
His attacker laughed. “You’re so pathetic. It’s different when you don’t have the power, isn’t it? When you aren’t in total control.”
He’d lost part of his fucking fingers!
“I do thank you for all your help, Doctor. Got to say, I learned a lot from you.”
No, no, he had to stop this. The knife was coming at him again. He could talk, he could make the killer understand—
I can help you.
The blade of the knife sliced across his throat. Blood flew out, hitting his attacker, hitting the walls of that elevator, spraying wide around Paul as he fell to his knees.
“But you know
what?”
His face slammed into the floor. He tried to speak but only managed a weak gurgle.
“You’re not going to survive a serial killer’s attack. You’re going to die, right here, choking on your own blood.”
The elevator doors dinged. Had they gone anywhere? Were they still on the bottom floor?
And why was it so cold?
“Hope you enjoy hell, Dr. Leigh. Maybe you can psychoanalyze all the damned souls down there.”
The keys jingled in the killer’s bloody hands. The parking garage was completely deserted—the only vehicle there was Leigh’s fancy BMW SUV, waiting to be taken. It wasn’t as if the asshole shrink needed the ride any longer. He wasn’t going anywhere, but he’d sure make for a good picture when the authorities finally did find his demented ass.
Using the remote—a remote that had been in Leigh’s fingers right before they were chopped off—the killer unlocked the BMW and had its lights flashing. A prime, lush interior waited—an interior that was about to get smeared with Leigh’s blood. Seemed fitting.
It was a good thing the SUV had dark, tinted windows. That tint was perfect for hiding blood-spattered clothes. A quick twist of the radio and music was pumping, blasting into the interior of that high-end ride.
A few moments later . . . the BMW slid out of that parking garage.
And the killer headed for the next target.
Chapter Twelve
Asher hadn’t come back to her bedroom. Bailey lay in bed, her gaze on the ceiling, her mind locked completely on him.
After Paul had left, so had Asher. He’d made sure that she locked her doors—like she was going to ever leave them unlocked again in her life—and he’d left strict instructions for her to call him if she so much as got even a little bit scared.
Then he’d left her. He’d said that he had to check in with Ana and the sheriff, that she needed to stay away from the station because it would still be swarming with reporters.
That had been an hour ago.
She hadn’t heard the roar of his motorcycle returning. And sleep—hell, yes, sleep was elusive. Even more so than normal.
So why am I even trying?
Bailey threw off the covers and climbed from the bed. She’d just go take a peek outside her window. Make sure everything looked okay out there.
As she tiptoed toward her blinds, she felt exactly like some hapless heroine in a horror movie. If she saw a suspicious shadow out there, no way would she venture out. She’d be dialing nine-one-one as fast as humanly possible.
But when Bailey looked out the window, she didn’t see anyone suspicious. Her street looked empty, and the streetlights put out a warm, cheerful glow. There was no car parked in the shadows, with a mystery driver just watching her house.
No reporters in sight at all.
Asher, when will you get back?
Bailey pushed the blinds into place once more. She had to get a grip. Since when did she need someone at her place? She’d been on her own—and fine—for months. Years, really, since her parents had died when she was just eighteen. A car accident that had taken them from her too fast.
Don’t think about that accident. Don’t. Don’t think about . . .
The fact that she had been with them. That she hadn’t been able to help them. That it was my fault.
Her phone rang, the moody beat of the music making her jump as she hurried toward her nightstand. She grabbed the phone and her shoulders relaxed when she saw Asher’s name on the screen. “Hello?”
“I’m finishing up at the station now,” he told her, the sound of his deep voice actually making her feel warm. “Accelerants were definitely used at the shop. Fire marshal thinks everything was in place well before we ever arrived.”
“Why destroy her own shop?” And who had that mystery guy been? Lurking, watching upstairs . . .
“Maybe there was something in there she didn’t want us to see.”
Like the paintings? Bailey closed her eyes, and confessed, “I don’t remember her being in the room with me.”
“What?”
Her eyes opened. Bailey cleared her throat and paced back toward her window. “She had that painting of me, from the cabin. But I don’t remember seeing her, not in my room . . .” Her words trailed away. Maybe the Death Angel brought her in while I was passed out?
“There’s something you need to know,” Asher said. “Wyatt has been digging into Carla’s past.”
She’d expected as much.
“Carla doesn’t just paint canvases. She’s also a licensed tattoo artist.”
The mark on Bailey’s shoulder seemed to burn. “I—I didn’t see any tattoos at her shop.” No tattoos. No tattoo equipment.
“Maybe that’s because we didn’t get the chance to look for them.” Voices rose and fell in the background. “She got that license over five years ago, Bailey. And Wyatt spoke to one of her old bosses—she definitely had her own tattoo equipment.”
She peered out the blinds once more. A black BMW SUV had just turned onto her street. That’s Dr. Leigh’s car. She’d seen it before, when he’d been on her doorstep, trying to get her cooperation for that damn book. The street lamps fell onto the vehicle, then it slid into shadows as the driver slowly pulled forward.
“No tattoo equipment was ever found at the cabin.” Asher’s voice had turned musing. “Perhaps it wasn’t there because she kept it someplace else.”
Her temples were throbbing. The BMW was gone. It had driven all the way down her street. Maybe it wasn’t Leigh. I’m sure lots of other people have the same vehicle. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you hired me to help you find a missing victim. Well, we found her. Only this victim tried to kill us both today, and now we see that she’s a tattoo artist . . . and someone had to put that tattoo on you and on the other women.”
“It wasn’t Carla.” She started to back away from the window. But then she saw the flash of more headlights. Now, another car was on her road. Suddenly, this road sure is busy. She tried to focus on Asher. He thinks Carla is involved in the killings? Is that what he’s getting at? “She was hurt that night. He was hurting her.”
“Are you sure?” Now his voice roughened. “Think about what you saw in that cabin, sweetheart. Really think about it. Did you see him hurting her?”
The new vehicle had rolled to a stop just in front of Bailey’s house. “Someone’s here.” And it was a Jeep she recognized. “I think it’s Spawn, again.” When would he leave her alone?
“Don’t open the door.”
Like she needed to be told that. She had no intention of talking to the reporter.
“I’m finishing up here, and then I’m coming home.”
Home. Her breath caught. She wanted to tell him to hurry. To get his ass there right then, but she just said, “Be safe.”
“You, too, sweetheart. And let that jerkoff stand outside until I get there. I’ll deal with him.”
“I can fight my own battles.” Spawn had pushed open his door, but he wasn’t getting out. Her eyes narrowed as she eased closer to the window. The lights in her room were turned off, so she didn’t think that he’d be able to see her.
“Maybe I like fighting them with you.” A pause. She didn’t hear voices behind him any longer. Had he left the station? “And forget what that asshole said before. You aren’t weak. You don’t escape a serial killer by being weak.”
Spawn was finally getting out of his vehicle. The car’s interior light was on and it spilled onto him as he clamped his hands around the driver’s side door. He slumped forward, his head going down.
Alarm flared within her. “I think something’s wrong with Spawn.”
“Yeah, he’s a dick. That’s his main problem.”
“No.” He’d pushed away from the Jeep’s door. Took a step toward her. Why did his clothes look so dark? Were they wet?
Spawn staggered, nearly fell.
“I think he’s hurt!”
“Stay insi
de.”
But Spawn had just fallen face-first onto the sidewalk, and he wasn’t getting up.
“He’s probably drunk,” Asher said. “I’ll check him out when I get there. Stay inside.”
“I don’t think he’s drunk.” Headlights lit up the road once more. She glanced toward the streetlight just as it fell on that BMW. Leigh? “We need to check on him.”
“Bailey—”
Spawn didn’t seem to even be breathing as he lay in a slumped mass on her sidewalk. Bailey bit her lip, then she turned from the window.
This is exactly what a horror heroine would do. Such a bad freaking move.
Only Bailey stopped to grab the gun that she kept hidden under her bed. She loaded it, checked that baby, and then she ran for the front door. She had her phone—still on—in her pocket and the gun gripped in her hand when she ran outside. “Spawn!” Bailey yelled. She’d paused just long enough to turn on her porch light.
“H-help . . .” His voice was weak, pain-filled.
Bright illumination from her light flooded onto him. Now she could see the blood on his hands. Oh, my God. Bailey’s left hand yanked up her phone.
“Bailey! Bailey, dammit, talk to me!” Asher was yelling.
“Spawn’s bleeding. He’s hurt, I don’t know how bad yet. Get an ambulance out here.”
Asher swore, but, hopefully, he’d stop that swearing and get them help, ASAP. She rushed forward and put her phone down on the sidewalk, but Bailey didn’t let go of her gun. “Spawn, what happened?”
He let out another ragged groan and tried to roll over.
Her left hand curled around him and she helped him to turn. Oh, shit. That is a lot of blood.
“Crazy bitch . . .” Spawn muttered.
Seriously, he was calling her a bitch right then? When she was trying to help his sorry ass?
“Bitch . . . Carla . . . she stabbed me . . .” His hand lowered to his side. Bailey saw the cut in his shirt and the blood that still pulsed from the wound. “Took my c-camera . . . left me to d-die . . .”
“You aren’t dying.” Though he looked like hell. “An ambulance is on its way.” She really hoped. “You’re going to be all—”