by Abbie Roads
Call it instinct, call it pheromones, call it instant visceral attraction—his dick went hard.
“Thomas? Are you all right?” The question he’d been asked too much lately punched him in the head, breaking his attention on her.
Sound clicked back on. He heard the canopy flapping and the metal clanging. Almost as if his body was working in slow motion, he turned his head, absorbing a world that was alive with vitality for the first time. He felt like a kid who’d just learned to name colors. Brown grass. Green canopy. Red scarf.
Audie stood outside the canopy wearing the same getup as last night. Only now, Thomas could see the hat and scarf and mittens were bright red.
Thomas raised his hand in a gesture somewhere between wait-a-minute, a wave, and what-the-hell. Audie smiled, his wrinkled face conveying a wordless understanding. That was why Thomas always liked the guy. No explanations, no empty phrases needed. And it didn’t hurt that he looked like Gandalf.
Thomas turned back to the woman, but she no longer stood there. She was walking away, carrying an aura of color with her. The sky above her glowed a sweet, watery shade of blue, the grass under her feet a subtle tan, and the grave she passed was a pinkish granite. Holy shit. It was all so beautiful, but then his gaze locked on the erotic sway of her hips.
Without warning, his mind flashed him images of her in his bed and him being mesmerized by her golden eyes, her matching gilded hair, and all that creamy, warm skin surrounding him, holding him tight. Without ever seeing her face, he knew she would be beautiful, so lovely that it would hurt to gaze anywhere but upon her.
There was the before her part of his life. Now there was the after her part of his life. And he couldn’t let her go. He needed her in every sense of the word—emotionally, physically, sexually. He wanted to be underneath her, on top of her, inside her. He wanted to surround her, swallow her, take her into himself and keep her there. Forever. Always. A-fucking-men.
He ran after her, opening his mouth to shout her name, but… He didn’t know her name. Yet he felt like he should know it. And know her. She was his other piece. She completed him. Healed him. Made up for all his deficiencies.
“Thomas? What are you doing?” Pastor Audie yelled. The concern and worry riding along the old man’s tone were more effective than diving headfirst into one of the granite markers dotting the cemetery.
What was he doing? Chasing after some random woman in the cemetery who obviously had no reaction to him. If she’d felt even an ounce of the connection he had, she wouldn’t be walking away.
He stopped running. But the urge to keep going pushed him forward a few more steps. He grabbed on to a gravestone to keep from following her. His heart rammed against his sternum so hard, it threatened to knock him to the ground. It hurt—physically hurt—to watch her walk away, taking color and beauty with her, leaving him alone inside his gray existence once more. It felt like she’d amputated half of his soul, leaving him with the phantom pain of what could have been. A cold heaviness settled over him. He felt as dead as the stone he clung to.
If he did chase her down, what would he say when he caught up to her? You bring color to my life. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Yeah. He sounded woo-woo-cuckoo.
Ffuucckk… What was wrong with him?
He was about to attend Mom’s memorial service, not get his wood waxed by a random stranger. And that’s what she was—a stranger. He didn’t even know what she looked like beyond her eyes. As if to prove him wrong, his mind flicked through images it created of what it wanted her to look like. And she was glorious. High forehead, lush lips, delicately arched brows, and her eyes. God, those eyes. Forever he’d associate the color gold with her. Stop it. Fucking stop it.
And she didn’t have a shadow of death. Impossible. Everyone had one. From a newborn to someone who’d recently passed. What was it about her that made her so different from everyone else? Stop it. Stop thinking about her.
He sucked in a resigned breath, forced the pictures of her out of his brain, and headed toward the canopy covering his mother’s grave and his gray, bleak existence.
The coffin dominated the small enclosure. Roses and delicate flowers trailed off the top. Would Mom have thought them pretty? He’d never really known her. Her attention had always landed on his stepfather, his stepbrother, and his sister. Thomas had been the invisible child.
And now that he thought about it, why was he even here? Mom never loved him. His sister had flat-out refused to attend the service. Thomas couldn’t blame her—she was still healing from everything she’d been through. He wished he could’ve stayed away too, but some sick sense of obligation and duty had forced him here.
Only two seats were taken. Pastor Audie sat in front of the coffin, his shadow flitting around him, light and playful. Thomas squinted his eyes, trying to force them to see the color of Audie’s hat again, but…nothing.
A gust of wind swept through the tent, and Audie shivered. It was too cold for the guy to keep doing all this outside work. A cold for someone his age could easily turn deadly.
“You warm enough?” Thomas started to unzip his coat. “You can use my coat. I’m always hot anyway.”
“Oh, no. You keep it.” The old man stood slowly as if to test his balance, then walked to the far side of the coffin where a portable podium had been erected. “Charity, my niece, made me wear long underwear today. And insulated pants. And three sweaters. Dressed me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Any more clothes, and I won’t be able to walk under the weight of them.” The man chuckled good-naturedly, then motioned toward the seat he’d vacated.
No way was Thomas sitting next to Malone. He turned toward the other man in the chairs and stopped. Instead of Malone occupying the other seat, Wiley Lanning, Thomas’s superintendent, sat there. His shadow carried a hint of gray, was thicker, and rolled like waves of honey. What was his boss doing here? It was nice of him to attend and all, but not what Thomas had expected. They weren’t BFFs or anything.
And that was it. No one else. Where were all the people? Where was his low-life bastard of a stepfather? It had been his idea to delay the burial of his wife by a week and a half so he could bury his son and hunt for his son’s killer—priorities and all that. But he wouldn’t dare blow off his wife’s memorial service. That wouldn’t look good. And Malone always kept up appearances.
“Am I early?” Thomas aimed the question at Pastor Audie.
“No, son. You’re right on time.”
“Where is everyone?” Thomas couldn’t force himself to move any closer.
Pastor Audie reached inside his coat pocket and held out a folded newspaper. “I’m assuming you didn’t read the paper this morning.”
Thomas scrunched his face in confusion. “The paper?” Even from the distance between them and reading upside down, he saw the headline.
POSTHUMOUS LETTER OUTLINES SHERIFF’S CRIMES
The words screamed inside Thomas’s head. His heart crashed around the cage of his ribs, seeking an escape. The goddamned scar on his face blazed to life, instantly wetting his skin with a sheen of sweat as he grabbed for the paper.
He scanned the article, but only certain words registered.
Murder.
Cover-up.
Sex companion.
Child abuse.
Investigation.
His mother had written a confess-all and sent it to the newspaper and the Bureau of Criminal Investigation where Thomas worked. She’d admitted to murdering his biological father twenty-five years ago.
As a child, Thomas used to dream that his father would show up and rescue him from Malone. But as the years passed, the fantasy had faded and morphed into a diffuse anger at the man who’d abandoned his children. He’d never suspected his father might be dead.
The real kick in the nuts was his mother’s accusation that Robert Malone had helped her co
ver up the murder—for a price. The price being her children.
Their mother had given Evanee, Thomas’s sister, to Malone’s son as a sex companion. And granted Malone permission to do as he pleased with Thomas. The selfish bitch had sacrificed her children to keep from going to prison.
The day their mother died, Evanee had glared at him with anger and hurt in her eyes. Are you blind or stupid or in on it? she’d asked him. He hadn’t exactly known what she’d meant, but he’d had his suspicions.
From as early as he could remember, he’d suspected something was wrong with his family. Something bigger, broader, badder than just Malone hurting him. “I knew. I damn well knew.” He shouted the words. Or whispered them. Or didn’t speak them at all. But they echoed through his mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull and colliding with one another until what little sanity he possessed went bye-bye. Adios. Ciao.
For one moment, his mind went blessedly blank. He grabbed hold of the nothingness with both fists. Tried to stay in that safe space. But reality wouldn’t be denied. It body-slammed him. He turned away from the coffin and coughed, but the foulness of his life wouldn’t come out. It had grown roots into his soul.
Thomas dropped the paper. Watched it flutter to the ground. Then raked both hands through his hair, grabbing onto it and pulling.
Maybe his mother had felt better for clearing her conscience, but really, the letter was a final fuck-you to both her children. His mother had once again forced him and his sister into a situation not of their making. The article called what had been done to him and Evanee a horrific case of child abuse. And now everyone knew, and everyone would see them—him—as a victim. And that just pissed him off.
He stared at the flower-draped coffin. “You bitch.” He raised both fists and slammed them down on all those pretty roses. The hard thunk of flesh to wood reverberated up and down his arms. He beat the lid as if he could wake up his dead mom and yell at her, then tore what remained of the blooms off the top, shredding them with his rage. Their cloying scent snuck up his nose, and he knew that the smell of roses would always make him angry. His chest heaved, his body shook, and he wanted to hit something human. But his stepbrother was dead. His mother was dead. The only person left was Malone.
“Where is he? Where the fuck is Malone?” He aimed the question at Pastor Audie, who stood there as stoic and calm as a mountain in a thunderstorm. A mountain never got angry at the thunder. Never feared it either. No, the mountain just accepted the storm and all the damage as the cycle of life. That was the thing about Pastor Audie. Total and complete acceptance, no matter what. It was damned hard to keep stoking the fury fire when Thomas was the only one tossing wood on the blaze. And it was damned hard to be angry when he half expected Audie to zap him with his staff for misbehaving.
“Maybe you should sit down.” Pastor Audie gestured to the empty seat he’d vacated. The seat next to Superintendent Lanning.
Thomas had forgotten about his boss. “You knew this was in the paper.” Thomas’s words were an accusation and a question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I called. All morning. Your phone kept going to voicemail.” Lanning’s tone was calm.
“I turned it off after we discussed Jeremy Tucker. Knew you wouldn’t call me in today because of…” He pointed at the coffin and the mess littering the ground.
Lanning gave him a sympathetic look. The guy didn’t need to say a word. Thomas could see the future in his eyes. And it hurt.
Despite his mother’s admission that Malone had abused him, the powers that be would still conduct an investigation. They’d want him to talk about what happened when he was a child and would then label him uncooperative when he couldn’t force himself to utter a word about it. Because of his uncooperativeness, they’d search for collusion between him and Malone. After all, both he and Malone were in law enforcement. And how convenient that Malone had called him out on a case last night. Right before this article went public. Didn’t help that his mother had sent the article to the BCI where he consulted. Wouldn’t the agents have fun interpreting what that meant? Was his mom seeking his help or trying to put a target on him?
“The only thing I’m going to say about Malone… I’m not involved in any of his shit. I’ve got nothing but hate for him. Growing up, I knew something wasn’t right between Junior and Ev. I didn’t know the extent until the day Mom died. And even then, it was mostly a guess. That article confirmed everything I suspected.” Reality stung so much worse than ugly speculations.
Lanning nodded as if he understood, but silence ticked by slow and suspicious. “We can’t find Robert Malone. Looks like he got wind of the story before it made the paper and took off. You know how that makes him look.”
“Guilty.” Thomas wanted to be happy that karma was finally searching out Malone, but he couldn’t find any joy.
“The BCI has an investigation to conduct at the same time we’re searching for Malone. We’ve got eyes on us over this. The ripple effects are turning into a tsunami. The ghosts of every case Malone touched will haunt the legal system for years. So I’m going to need you to come in this afternoon and answer some questions.” Lanning’s face went as somber as a soldier facing a suicide mission. “While we investigate…” He trailed off.
Thomas might not be able to see color, but he could see the words his boss didn’t speak. Thomas’s career—the only reason he kept sucking air—was going to be put on hold, because Malone was the gift that kept on giving. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and yanked out his consultant credential. He stared at his name, then let it go and watched it flutter to the ground. “Fuck this.”
“Two weeks. A month. When the investigation is over, everything will go back to the way it always was.” Lanning’s words were rushed and full of false reassurance.
Thomas knew exactly how the BCI investigators would look at him—through the lens of Malone’s behavior, overanalyzing, misinterpreting, and dissecting every single thing Thomas had ever done or not done in his entire life.
And then there was how everyone else would look at him. Before the letter, everyone just thought he was odd—odd-looking and odd-acting. Now, they’d be able to put two and two together and realize the damage done to his face as a child was caused by Malone. Thomas should be happy about that. It was what he’d wanted, but now, all he felt was shame. As if all the dark corners of his life, all the parts he carefully kept hidden, were on public display. And everyone would know that he was partly to blame for never speaking up. For being too damned scared to say a word about it.
He willed time to reverse, willed himself back to childhood so he could’ve killed Malone and Junior and saved him and his sister a lifetime of abuse. Hindsight sucked ass.
Reality stood right next to him, as cruel and merciless as ever. He clenched his teeth together so tightly, he could hear them grinding. He turned away from the casket.
“Thomas.” Pastor Audie’s voice stopped him. “We still need to conduct your mother’s service.”
Foul words filled Thomas’s mouth, but he swallowed them down for Audie’s sake. “You do whatever you need to do to be right with your God. And I’m going to do what I need to do.”
He walked away.
Chapter 3
Helena stood in the middle of an expansive, eternal white space. No walls, no ceilings, no bars, no locks, and best of all, no people. A gentle breeze whispered over her arms and legs. Warmth heated her skin as if an invisible sun shone upon her. And the sweet, sweet silence felt like a miracle. A deep sense of peace subdued the bad memories that played on repeat in the back of her mind.
Real life could never look so pristine or feel so serene. She had to be dreaming.
Her abdomen suddenly hardened as if she were tensing her muscles, except she wasn’t. She reached down to feel her stomach, but what met her fingers wasn’t warm flesh. It felt like cold…metal. What was going on? She l
ifted the simple white smock she wore to look at her skin. A silver shimmer spread over her torso. Each place the shimmer touched hardened the same way her abdomen had.
She dropped the hem of her shirt to watch the shimmer travel down her arm to her hand. She made a fist and felt something strange in the gesture—leashed power. As if she’d suddenly become Superwoman and could punch through steel. Too bad she hadn’t had this shimmer thing back in Fairson. She could’ve cleaned the women’s toilets with the Sisters’ faces.
Without her brain issuing the order, her mouth opened and words flowed out of her—words spoken through her, not from her. “You are the warrior.” The voice boomed loud with a resonance that rattled her bones. “It is your destiny to teach others how to survive. The armor will protect you from any pain the dream body suffers.”
Before she had time to process the words and their meaning, vibrant color flashed against the stark white.
She found herself standing in the middle of a bedroom that looked as though a rainbow had exploded in it. Everywhere were cheerful colors. Bright-yellow walls. A red comforter. Orange pillows. Blue curtains. A green rug. The shades and hues somehow all worked together to create a vivacious space.
But despite the liveliness, a dark menace hung in the air. That place between her shoulder blades itched, goose bumps rose in her hair, and a warning crawled in her gut.
Something bad was about to happen. And she felt readier than she’d ever been.
She whirled around, arms up, fists clenched, expecting to see a Sister, but a young man stood there.
He was average in every way except his eyes. They carried a feral look—the same look a shark gets when it scents blood in the water. “You’ll never be anyone else’s.” Spittle flew from his lips, and he punctuated his words by pointing a hatchet at her.
“Always attack.” That strange voice spoke through her again. “Never react. If you are reacting, you are losing.” Something else was inside her, controlling her mouth and her body. Fear latched on, but evaporated when her body lunged at the guy, slamming front to front with him, pushing him, trying to make him topple over backward. She drove him back one step, two, three, staying in his space, leaving no room for him to use his weapon. But then he rebounded, plowing forward and shoving her off with a thrusting movement of his shoulder. Momentum knocked her backward. Awkwardness tripped her feet.