by Cynthia Eden
“Why?” Asher demanded. “What else did you do to her? I mean, you’d left her already. Was there something fucking else?”
“Asher,” Bailey warned. “Stop.”
Carla’s tears fell harder. “I saw him throw you into the grave.”
Oh, God.
“I thought you were dead then. I swear, I did. Or I—I would have tried to get you out. But you weren’t moving and he just tossed you in . . .” She took a frantic step toward Bailey, the camera still gripped in her hands. “That was when I snuck back in the cabin. He was busy with you—”
“He was fucking burying her,” Asher snarled.
“I went back inside.” Carla’s voice had gone small. Whispery. “I set the place to burn. I—I waited until he came inside, and then I hit him from behind. I knocked him out and he burned with that terrible cabin.”
And Bailey had woken up in that grave. “If you hadn’t stopped him, he would have come back and buried me alive.” Had he done that to his other victims? Tossed them in the ground and covered them up while they were still breathing?
Please, no. Don’t let them have suffered that way.
“I knew what it would look like . . .” Carla licked her lips. “You were the hero, I was the coward. The one who left. I knew what the news would do to me, so I didn’t say a word. I ran . . . as far and as fast as I could, and I hoped that no one would ever find out what I’d done.”
Bailey’s chest was so tight it hurt to breathe. “You were a victim, too.”
Carla cocked her head. “Was I? Because I killed that night. I killed him, and . . . when I ran the first time, I thought for sure I’d killed you, too.” If possible, her voice dropped even more as she hoarsely said, “So what does that make me?”
“I don’t know what it makes either of us.” Bailey pulled free of Asher and put her hand on Carla’s thin shoulder. “Survivors?”
Mascara smudges stained Carla’s cheeks. “How can you even touch me? After what I did to you?”
“Because it wasn’t a normal situation. It was life or death and it was hell and it was insane. I can’t judge you for that—”
“The guilt is eating me alive.”
“Carla—”
“I never understood, not until now,” Carla said, shaking her head frantically. “Now I know what it’s like.” She thrust the camera at Bailey. “So I’m making things right.”
Bailey took the camera, frowning.
“You’re on that camera. Richard Spawn’s camera. So many shots of you. And I—I don’t think you always knew when he was photographing you.”
Bailey pressed the button to turn on the camera. Asher was at her side, staring down at the images as she began to scroll through them.
“Some are just of—of your house. I recognized them right away because . . . I’ve been by here before. Probably a dozen times. Never got the courage to come inside.”
She saw the shots of her home. Her house . . . with Asher’s bike parked outside. A scene that appeared to have been taken at night.
Bailey pressed the button once more.
Her house . . . she and Asher were on the steps. Heading inside. She recognized the outfit she had on—clothes from the first night she and Asher had met. The night when . . .
“He was the asshole who tried to run us over,” Asher snarled.
She hit the button to scroll through the pictures, faster and faster . . .
And she saw a parking garage. The parking garage she’d been in at the LOST building.
Asher was with her in that pic. Leaning in close. They almost looked like lovers. Even though we weren’t, not then.
Not then.
“He was stalking you,” Asher said. “The son of a bitch.”
She hit the button again. Again.
More photos. Photos from weeks ago. Months ago. Photos of her at the supermarket. At the library. Photos of her going into Dr. Leigh’s building.
He was there, all that time, watching me. Always watching, and I didn’t even know it.
“I think he’s dangerous,” Carla whispered. “He came at me . . . he grabbed me, and I reacted. I just . . . I needed to stop him. I had to stop him.” Her eyes were big, tear-filled. “I know Wyatt will probably toss me in jail. That’s fine. I get that but . . . but you needed to be warned. That reporter is dangerous, and I’m afraid that he’s after you.”
Richard Spawn slipped from the hospital. He had to put his hand to the wall because the damn drugs were still in his system. The morphine had given him a nice, sweet ride for a time, but he had to get back to business.
Lying up in a bed wasn’t his style. Not when there was more to be done.
Too much more.
So he took a minute to gather his strength and maybe he staggered a bit when he cleared those emergency room doors, but no one tried to stop him. Car crash victims were being rushed inside. Everyone was swarming around them. That trauma scene gave him the perfect time to get out.
He sucked in a deep breath of that cold night air and glanced around. The last time he’d seen his car, it had been at Bailey’s place. The deputies had probably towed it somewhere, and shit, wasn’t that a pain in the ass?
But he needed transport. He needed to get out of there and get back to work. The Death Angel copycat was a story too big to miss, and with the shit Carla Drake had pulled . . .
Maybe I’ll just be the story this time.
Smiling, he pulled out his phone. He knew one reporter in the area who’d really want to hear what he had to say. One glory-hound bastard who won’t be able to resist.
Richard Spawn wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. He put the phone to his ear and waited for the asshole he needed to answer the phone. He propped up against a car, wincing in pain.
Answer the damn phone. Answer—
“Hello?”
“Dave? It’s Spawn. Look, man, I’ve got a story for you. One you’re gonna want to hear—”
“Doubt it,” Dave Barren drawled. “Your sorry ass hasn’t scooped me in years.”
Bastard. “Oh, yeah? Come to the Montgomery Hospital, and I will blow your mind with what I know about Carla Drake.”
Silence. Dumbass, just come on.
“You’re lucky,” Dave finally said with a long and too-loud sigh. “I happen to be close. Be there in fifteen minutes.”
Hell, yes.
I am still in this thing.
Deputy Ben loaded Carla Drake into the back of his patrol car. He was oddly gentle with her, asking again and again, “Ma’am, are you okay back there? Ma’am, do you need anything?”
Wyatt paced near the car. “Shit, Ben, this isn’t some fucking field trip! The woman is an arsonist!”
Ben stiffened. He looked back at Wyatt. “She’s also a victim.”
Victims could be dangerous, too. Asher knew that all too well. He stood near the other men, his body still heavy with tension. It was such a fucking long night—would it never end? They’d called Wyatt, told him all about Spawn . . .
But the reporter was in the wind. The guy had seemingly vanished from the hospital. None of the staff remembered seeing him leave. They’d just found his empty bed.
And now Carla was being taken into custody. She’d fallen silent, her skin too pale, her eyes appearing almost dead.
“Do you think . . .” Wyatt muttered, “that you and Bailey can manage to make it until dawn without more hell coming your way?”
It wasn’t a promise he was ready to make. “Not like we’re the ones looking for trouble.”
Wyatt raked a hand over his face. “It just keeps finding you, right. I got that.” He glanced toward the patrol car. “What’s your take on her?”
Bailey was inside the house, and he was glad. He’d wanted Bailey away from the other woman. “I don’t trust her, not for a second.”
“Hell.”
“She left Bailey to die up there, you know that.”
“I do.” His hand fell. “But I also saw the number that the Death Angel p
ulled on those other women. So I figure Carla Drake had to be out of her mind with fear when she ran.”
“I’m sure that’s what any good lawyer will say about all her actions.” The cover-up, the fire, the attack on Spawn . . .
“Post-traumatic stress.” Wyatt nodded. “She probably needed as much therapy as—” He broke off, looking uncomfortable.
But Asher knew what the guy had been about to say.
As much therapy as Bailey. The guy needed to stop worrying about Bailey. “Maybe Carla Drake got that therapy,” Asher said. “And that’s why her name was in Leigh’s office.”
Once more, Wyatt turned to look at Carla. Deputy Ben had leaned in to check on her again. “You think she could be a killer.”
“I think she left Bailey to die. I think she stabbed a reporter, and I think she’s not the damsel in distress that she seems to be.” He glanced back at the house. “Bailey looks at her and feels empathy. I look at her—”
“And you see a threat.”
Hell, yes, he did. And he saw dots that he could connect . . . dots that did not lead down a good path. His gaze returned to the sheriff. “How long was she in that cabin with the Death Angel? She is a tattoo artist—shit, isn’t that something right there? All of the victims had tats. Did she have one, too?”
Wyatt hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“People are not always who they seem to be,” Asher said flatly. “I sure as hell wish you would let our profiler take a turn with her. Let Sarah talk to Carla when she arrives.”
Wyatt hesitated, but after a long, tense moment, he gave a grim nod. “Fine. I want to know the truth, too.” He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll use the profiler . . . and the forensic anthropologist you told me about before.”
Asher blinked in surprise. Talk about a complete 180.
“You think I want to have killers running loose here? I need to make this area safe, and if LOST can help, then I’m going to stop being a dick about it and use your resources.” He turned away from Asher. “Get some sleep. Try not to nearly die again before dawn.”
“Can’t make any promises on that,” Asher called after him.
The sheriff threw up a middle finger and climbed into the car. Deputy Ben hurried to join him.
Asher stood outside a moment longer, watching their car drive away. The night air had turned colder, so much colder, and the chill swept over his skin. He heard the door squeak open behind him and then the soft pad of Bailey’s feet on the steps. He turned to face her.
She stood on the edge of the porch, her arms wrapped around her stomach. The porch light fell behind her. She stared at him in silence for a moment, then said, “It’s really been one hell of a night.”
Serious understatement.
He walked to her. Slowly. He climbed the steps. Curled his finger under her chin. And Asher leaned forward and kissed her as gently as he could.
Hell of a night. But she’s safe. And that’s all that matters. He kept having flashes of her on that dark mountain road. Her body sprawled, her eyes closed. “Let’s go inside.”
She nodded.
He brushed a kiss over her lips once more.
When they went inside, he locked the door and heard her reset the alarm.
“It’s an illusion, isn’t it?” Bailey asked him.
He lifted his brows.
“The alarm. The safety here. Carla got right inside. No trouble at all. If she could get to me, then I guess anyone could.” A shiver slid over her. “All this time, I thought this house was my haven. But it was a prison, too, and I’m seeing that now.”
He headed closer to her.
“How long did it take you,” Bailey asked him, “to get back to living a normal life?”
“I don’t really know what normal is.” He shrugged. “And I figure it has to be overrated anyway.”
Her lips curled. “I want to believe her.”
“I know you do.”
“I want to think that she . . . she’s like me. She was scared and lost and now she’s finding her way back.”
He waited.
“But I tried to remember more about that night, just like you said. I tried to remember what he was doing to her and . . . I don’t think he used his knife on her. When I came into that room, he was leaning over her. His hands were on the bed. But . . . no knife.”
“Bailey . . .”
“And there was someone else in her shop. I saw him, but she’s acting as if she set that fire all by herself.”
Yes, she was.
“Lies. Truth. How can you tell the difference?”
Especially when someone was very, very good at lying. I think Carla is good at telling lies.
“I see it in your eyes when you look at her,” Bailey continued. “I know you think she’s not a victim. You think she was in on it all, don’t you?”
He weighed his words. Thought about being tactful. Screw it. She doesn’t need protecting or coddling. Bailey needs truth. “Her grandfather’s cabin was right there. She was a tattoo artist.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Fuck, yeah, I do think she was involved. I think she might have even been helping him all along.”
Bailey paled. “She was screaming that night.”
Are you sure about that?
“I don’t want you to doubt me. Not you, Asher. Not you.”
He caught her hand in his. Pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Wyatt gave the go-ahead for Sarah to talk with her. If Carla is holding back secrets, Sarah is the one who can figure them out.”
“Sarah . . . you said she knew killers.”
“Yes.”
“But what about victims? Does she understand them? Because maybe you’re wrong, Asher. And I’m right. Just like I was before. Maybe Carla needs help and not another prison.”
Carla Drake pulled in a slow breath. It wasn’t her first time in the back of a patrol car. If only. But she’d had far too many run-ins with cops during her life.
The young deputy, Ben, had been so nice. His hands had been gentle when he cuffed her, his voice soft.
Ben was driving now, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead, but Wyatt kept glancing back at her, frowning. She figured he was the kind of guy who didn’t appreciate it when someone pulled one over on him. Too bad.
She was a pro when it came to manipulation. She’d had to be.
How else would I have survived? It wasn’t as if she’d ever lived some fairy-tale life.
“Got to say . . .” Wyatt finally spoke, breaking some of the stark tension in the car. “I’m mighty curious. Do you have a black tattoo of angel wings on your shoulder, too?”
She swallowed. “No, I don’t.” She had eleven tattoos, exactly eleven. And not a single one of them was of angel wings. “I guess the Death Angel just didn’t get time to mark me.” Such a lie—she carried plenty of marks from him. They were just beneath the skin, where no one else could see them.
“How long were you with him?” Wyatt asked her.
Ben just kept right on focusing on that road.
“Too long,” Carla muttered.
“How long?”
She leaned back in her seat. “Maybe I should get a lawyer.” She figured there was no maybe about it. She was in deep, and she didn’t want to drown. “So I think I’ll just shut up until I have that legal representation, okay?”
He grunted. “Asher Young thinks you’re a killer.”
The car accelerated a bit.
“Know what I think?” Wyatt asked her.
I don’t really care. You’re not overly important to me. Nothing really seemed that important any longer.
“I think he’s right.”
Asshole. You don’t want to see just how bad I can be.
They drove past a deputy’s car, and Richard hunched down in the passenger seat of Dave’s vehicle. “Shit! Those fuckers are everywhere!”
Dave laughed. “Dude, what’s your problem? You scared of cops now?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I mean, shit, you got another
restraining order on you or something? I remember what happened to you in Miami, when you got too close to that pop star. Her bodyguards thrashed your ass when they found you hiding in her house.”
Richard’s hands clenched into fists. “I was just getting a shot.”
“You were breaking and entering.” Dave turned into a small motel’s parking lot, one that was right on the edge of Brevard. “And I’ve heard you’ve been pulling some questionable shit with Bailey Jones, too.” He flicked the ignition switch, turning the car off. “When are you ever gonna learn, man? You push too hard, and you get burned.” But then Dave gave a low laugh. “Though I did have to drag your ass out of a hospital parking lot. So maybe you did get burned already.”
“You always were a jackass,” Richard snapped at him.
“A jackass who gets better stories than you . . . and doesn’t have a wall of restraining orders. I think your problem, man, your problem is that you can’t stay objective. You always fall for the ladies on the other end of your lens. You can’t do that. Don’t see them as people. They’re just objects. A paycheck.”
Richard growled at him.
“Now about that scoop . . .” Dave tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “It had better be worth dragging my ass out of bed at this time of night.”
“It’s worth it, all right,” Richard fired back at him.
“Then tell me.”
“Carla Drake.” He said her name quickly, nodding. “She’s the one who stabbed me. That bitch put a knife in my side.”
And Dave laughed harder. “That . . . that woman on the run? The other Death Angel victim?” More laughter.
Rage pulsed in Richard.
“Were you stalking her, too? Shit, Spawn, you have to get control of yourself. No, no, wait—you’ll be my story.” And he reached into the backseat and pulled out his camera. “Bet you didn’t think I even still carried one, did you? I can take some shots.” He smirked. “But I’m still better than you.” He popped off the lens cap and started snapping pictures. The flash lit up the car, and Richard lifted his hands automatically, trying to cover his eyes.