by Cynthia Eden
But this stench . . . Royce covered his mouth with his hand and slogged forward. He went around the back of his vehicle and then—
Saw the blood. The body. The man who’d just been tossed there, dropped right next to his precious new BMW.
For a moment, Royce couldn’t move. He stared at that guy, sick, oddly fascinated. My first dead body. So this is what it’s like. A body . . .
Oh, fuck.
He was going to have to report this. He’d have to call the authorities. They’d want to know why he’d been at the motel, who he’d been with. Shit, this wasn’t going to look good for him.
Maybe I can call in an anonymous tip. I mean, that guy is dead. It’s not like an ambulance has to rush to his rescue. It’s obvious he’s fucking gone.
He pulled the keys out of his pocket. Yeah, yeah, an anonymous tip. That was the ticket. Exactly what he needed to do.
Then a woman screamed, from right behind him.
He yelled, too, and spun around. The blonde was there, with mascara streaked under her eyes, with her hair shooting in a dozen directions, and her dress from last night falling off her right shoulder.
“What did you do?” she screamed at him.
What? Like he’d done this shit?
Then she whirled away and ran, screaming at the top of her lungs. And nearly every single door at the motel flew open.
And all eyes locked on him.
Son of a bitch.
“Someone, help!” he said, hoping he sounded appropriately concerned. “A man has been killed!”
Chapter Sixteen
Asher figured it was time for introductions. “Sheriff Wyatt Bliss, I’d like for you to meet Dr. Sarah Jacobs and Dr. Victoria Palmer, associates of mine from LOST who have agreed to help with the current investigation.”
Wyatt stood up from behind his desk. The guy’s face appeared haggard, as if he hadn’t slept a single bit last night. He hurried around the desk, offering his hand first to Victoria—“Ma’am”—and then to Sarah. “Heard a lot about you both.”
Sarah gave her slow, measured smile. “Please don’t believe everything that you hear.”
Sarah was a bit of an enigma to Asher. The woman played her cards very, very close to the vest. She was cool and controlled and the way she knew her killers—downright scary.
As for Victoria . . . she was more open. She smiled more, and lately, she’d been laughing more, too. She worked with the dead because she wanted to give them justice; he understood that about her.
But Sarah . . .
Hell, maybe I just haven’t gotten too close to her because I’m afraid the lady will profile me. He knew it was a fear that many at LOST possessed.
“I know better than to do that,” Wyatt said, exhaling. His uniform was rumpled but his badge gleamed. He glanced over at Asher, frowning. “Where’s Bailey?”
The guy’s voice still did it. Still hitched a bit when he said her name. He really needed to stop doing that shit. “She’s talking with Deputy Ben.” Actually, he thought she was trying to get the scoop on Carla from the fellow. When he and Bailey had arrived at the station, they’d quickly learned that Carla was in lockup, being held in the back.
Wyatt nodded. He blew out a long breath. “The FBI will be here in . . .” He looked at his watch. “One hour. I’ve been told I control this case for one more hour, and only that long, so . . .” He rolled back his shoulders. “Dr. Jacobs, you are welcome to go in and try talking with Carla Drake. Be advised that she has requested a lawyer and that you need to fully identify yourself to her. She may say nothing at all to you . . .”
“She may,” Sarah agreed with a slow nod.
“But I want someone to try and make a run at her while there is still time.” He leaned against his desk. “As for getting the Death Angel’s remains exhumed, that’s going to take time. I’ll pull all the strings I have on that, but until I get news, Dr. Palmer, you are welcome to go and have a one-on-one chat with our ME, Dr. Moore. Maybe Moore can give you something to use there.” His gaze slid toward Asher. “See? This is me, cooperating, because I don’t feel like playing political shit. I feel like stopping this madness before anyone else gets—”
A knock on his office door cut through Wyatt’s words. Frowning, he straightened away from his desk just as Deputy Ben poked his head inside.
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Ben said quickly. “But we just got a report of a body found at the Jensen Motel. Guy’s throat was slashed, from ear to ear.”
Wyatt’s eyes closed briefly. “Not another one.”
“I can come with you to the scene,” Victoria said quickly.
Right—dead bodies—totally her area of expertise.
Wyatt’s gaze zeroed in on her. “Yeah, yeah, come with me.” He turned his head toward Asher. “I trust that you’re going to keep staying close to Bailey.”
Hell, yes, he was.
“Right. Okay.” Wyatt marched back around his desk and took out his gun. “Let’s get moving then, Dr. Palmer.”
When Ben rushed away to talk with Wyatt, Bailey used that time to slip down the now unguarded hallway that led to the holding cell. Only one prisoner was back there.
Carla Drake.
She was curled up on the cot, her body facing the stone wall. Her black hair trailed behind her on the old pillow. She looked defeated and so very small as she lay huddled in the fetal position.
Bailey’s fingers curled around the bars. “Carla?”
The other woman stiffened. “They locked me up. I—I knew they would but . . .” If possible, her body curled in even more. “There’s something about being a prisoner again. I—I can’t take it.”
Bailey’s heart hurt for the other woman.
“I’m sorry,” Carla whispered hoarsely. “So incredibly sorry for what I did to you.”
“You were terrified.” Her hands tightened on the bars. “I swear, I understand.”
Carla glanced over her shoulder. “No, you don’t.”
“Ms. Jones!” Ben’s horrified voice had her jumping. “You shouldn’t be back here!” He locked his hands around her shoulders and then stopped, as if uncertain of what to do.
Bailey pulled away from him. “Does she have to be locked up like this?”
Ben looked miserable. “Sheriff’s orders.” He bit his lip. “You can’t be back here,” he said again, voice softer, sadder.
“I know. I just—” Wanted to make sure she was okay.
“Go, Ms. Jones,” Ben told her firmly.
Bailey squared her shoulders and stepped away from the bars. That was when she noticed the other woman, Sarah. Asher had introduced them, briefly, when Sarah and Victoria first arrived—they’d all met up right outside of the police station.
Bailey felt nervousness surge through her as she once again met Sarah’s gaze. Why do I feel this way with her? Everyone knew about Sarah’s father, Murphy the Monster. Sarah Jacobs had grown up with him, had learned about killers from him.
Was that why Bailey felt so tense when she was near her?
Or . . .
Am I afraid of what she’ll see in me?
Sarah gave Bailey a small, fleeting smile. There was sympathy in Sarah’s eyes. The same sympathy she saw when so many people looked at her.
Everyone still sees a victim.
She was more than that. Bailey peered back at Carla. They both were.
“Ms. Drake,” Ben called. “There’s someone here to see you.”
Carla was staring at the wall again. “Is it a lawyer?”
“No, no, he’s coming in real soon. This is Dr. Sarah Jacobs, and if you don’t want to talk to her—”
But at Sarah’s name, Carla had rolled over. Her gaze locked on Sarah, and a moment later, she jumped to her feet and hurried toward the bars. “I’ve heard of you.”
“And I’d like to learn more about you,” Sarah said simply.
Carla licked her lips. “I’ll talk to her. Only her. I want everyone else to leave.”
Well, that
was something. Bailey sure hadn’t expected Carla’s quick agreement to a chat with Sarah. Ben put a light hand on her shoulder. “Come this way with me, Ms. Jones.”
She let him lead her away from the holding cell, but Bailey glanced back once more. She sure wished she could hear what Carla had to say to Dr. Sarah Jacobs.
“Ms. Jones . . .” Ben sighed. “There’s something you need to know. I got called away because another body was found.”
Her eyes widened.
“And the guy who found the body? It was your ex, Royce Donnelley.”
Carla stared into Sarah’s eyes. She’d thought about this woman before. Her story had made an impression on Carla years ago. As a teen, Sarah had turned in her own father. She’d lived with a killer for years, but managed to escape. To walk away.
I did that, too.
“What was it like?” Carla asked her, tilting her head to better see Sarah through the bars. “Living with him all those years? Knowing that he was killing all that time?”
“Guilt ate at me constantly,” Sarah told her after only a small hesitation. “Even as a child, I hated what he did.”
Hated it but . . .
“Tried to kill myself. Tried to stop him.” Sarah sighed. “And I failed at both attempts.”
For a minute, Carla couldn’t breathe. Her lungs had gone too tight. “I didn’t know—”
“Most people don’t know about the suicide attempt. That didn’t make the headlines.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because I want you to trust me. So I’m telling you my secrets . . .”
“And you think I’ll tell you mine.” Think again. It wasn’t going to work that way for her. Carla was focused on one thing . . . survival. She was living for herself now. She kept being torn, conflicted about Bailey. But in the end, she’d done the right thing, hadn’t she?
I gave her the camera.
So maybe that would even the scales between them. Now she could move on. I can look after myself.
Only . . .
I’m thinking too much in here. Remembering too much. Feeling too much. And she needed that all to stop.
Sarah was dressed in black dress pants and a light, soft-looking sweater. Her hair was styled perfectly, her makeup minimal. She looked elegant. She looked professional. She hardly looked like the child of a serial killer.
“What happened the first time you saw him kill?” Carla asked her.
Sarah’s eyelids flickered. “I . . . heard him the first time. Heard her, actually. Her screams.”
Carla flinched.
“But he told me it was just a bad dream. I believed him. After all, he was my father. His job was to protect me and keep me safe. And he’d never lied to me before.”
“Not that you knew about,” Carla muttered.
“Right. Not that I knew about.” Sarah’s voice was soft, almost gentle.
Carla inched a bit closer to the cell’s bars. “Did you ever think you’d be like him?”
“Only every day.”
Oh, hell, but this woman was good. “You’re better than he was.”
“He?”
“I saw a shrink.” Her lips twisted. “I thought it might help me. That the guilt would stop eating me up if I just talked to someone . . .” Her words trailed away. “It didn’t help. He didn’t help. He just made everything worse. He made me worse, and that shouldn’t have happened.”
“The shrink you saw . . . was it Dr. Leigh?”
“Surprised he hasn’t come in here,” Carla muttered.
“He can’t come. He’s dead.”
Carla’s lips parted. She let her eyes widen.
“He was found killed last night. One of my associates, Asher Young, actually found the body.”
“Asher and Bailey.”
Sarah’s eyes had narrowed. “Yes.”
Tread carefully. “They . . . they always seem to be together.” She licked her lips. “I guess it’s good that she has someone like that—someone there to be with her.”
“How do you feel about Bailey?”
I want to kill her. I want her to forgive me. I just want her to vanish. Looking at Bailey . . . hurts.
Because Bailey had done the one thing that no one else had ever done.
She was going to die for me. She fought . . . for me.
And everything changed then.
“Asher noticed that Dr. Leigh had a tattoo,” Sarah said. “Black angel wings. An old tattoo, from the looks of things.”
“An old tat of those wings?” Carla thought about that. “Why the hell would he have that?” Her heartbeat kicked up but her voice stayed calm.
“Maybe because he was obsessed with the crimes. He was penning a tell-all book on serial killers. Perhaps that tat was his way of paying homage to the killer.”
She nodded. “Yeah, maybe. Twisted as fuck, though.” A bead of sweat slid down her back.
“Or maybe . . .” Sarah’s voice was still mild. Easy. “Maybe he knew the Death Angel. From what I’ve gathered so far, it seems Dr. Leigh has long been interested in the work of serial killers.”
Carla was missing something. “Did you know him? Leigh, I mean?”
“I did,” Sarah said, surprising her. “He tried—on more than one occasion—to get me to participate in some of his studies. He even wanted me to make arrangements to get him access to my father.”
“Your father . . .” Now this was scary shit. “He escaped prison, didn’t he? I heard that maybe he died in a fire, but no one knows for sure. Maybe he got out . . .”
Sarah’s eyelids flickered. “You do know a lot about me.”
Carla shrugged. “I read the papers. Follow the news. Same as everyone else.”
Sarah nodded. “My father did escape. And, yes, there was a fire.”
“He died?”
“A fire . . .” Sarah continued as her head cocked to the left. “Just like there was a fire at the Death Angel’s cabin.”
Carla’s heart slammed into her chest. Stay cool. “I did that. I wanted to make him go away.” Her head leaned closer to Sarah. “Did you do it, too? Did you want to make your father go away?” Because the details had been sketchy and—
“My father tried to save me. He was a twisted, sick man, but in his way, he cared for me. And no, I didn’t do it to make him go away. I wanted my father in prison. I didn’t want to watch him burn.”
Silence.
Carla’s breathing hitched. Oh, shit, oh, shit . . .
“Is there anything else that you’d like to ask me about, Carla?” Sarah asked her softly.
“I—I’m tired. I don’t really want to talk anymore.” Her shoulders hunched and she turned away.
“I’d like to ask you one more question,” Sarah said.
Carla gave a grudging nod.
“When did you give Dr. Leigh that tattoo? Was it before or after you became his patient?”
For an instant, Carla’s mind went completely blank. I took the papers from that file. I destroyed the computer. No one knows. No one . . . She tried to figure out what to say and then, when the silence stretched too long, she realized . . .
Not saying anything . . . that’s the answer Sarah wanted.
She risked a desperate glance at Sarah.
“That’s what I thought,” Sarah murmured.
Hell. Her jaw clenched as she gritted out, “I want a lawyer.”
“Good. You definitely need one.”
“Are you all right, Ms. Jones?” Ben asked her.
“I’m fine.” She gave him a weak smile. “And how many times do I have to tell you . . . you can just call me Bailey.”
He nodded. “Sorry, I . . . you shouldn’t have been in there with her.”
“I know.” Her hands twisted. “That’s not going to get you in trouble, is it?”
“I don’t think so. But . . . don’t do it again, okay? Don’t—”
The main door to the station opened and two reporters rushed in. Their cameramen were right on the
ir heels.
“Hell. I told them to all stay outside.” Ben pushed her toward Wyatt’s office. “Go in there while I take care of these guys.”
She hurried toward the office, but before she could go inside, Asher was there. “Broke the rules, huh?” he murmured.
“Guilty.” But at least she didn’t flush while she said it.
He opened the door for her. “You heard about the new body?”
“And about the fact that Royce found it.” Of all people . . . Royce.
He followed her inside the office. She hurried toward Wyatt’s window and peered outside. “It’s like a feeding frenzy.” And once those reporters got news of the latest victim, they’d be swarming even more. Or maybe they already had gotten the news, and that was why two had burst inside the police station.
“It’s not adding up,” Asher told her.
Frowning, Bailey turned toward him. “What isn’t?”
“Every damn thing about this case.” He started to pace. “I feel almost as if we’re getting hit from multiple sides. There’s the killer who went after Hannah. Who left that camera on our doorstep. Then there’s the SUV that keeps coming after us—an SUV that just seemingly vanished.”
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “It will turn up. There’s an all-points bulletin out for that thing.”
“I get the feeling that SUV could be at the bottom of a ravine someplace.”
The way Asher’s motorcycle was? Bailey flinched.
“I have to know,” Asher said softly.
She licked her lips. “Know what?”
But he stalked toward her. “Bailey, they have a crew en route to get my motorcycle. Someone may find those files that were in the saddlebag. Your files. I need to know why you wanted them to stay hidden—I need to know so I can protect you. Back you up. Take care of you.”
She whirled to stare out of the window. “You like me.”
“What?” His hand curled around her shoulder and he forced her to turn back and face him. “Trust me, sweetheart, like doesn’t quite cover it.”
“I like the way you look at me,” she whispered. “The way you see me, and not anything else.”
“I will always see you.”