Torn

by Cynthia Eden

  “And that’s when she got away from him,” Dace Black cut in.

  Wade nodded.

  “But he didn’t stop,” Dace continued, reading his notes. “He was firing, and you had to shoot back.”

  “My first shot wasn’t meant to kill.” And he hadn’t, dammit. He’d wanted that bastard to go in alive. If North was the twisted freak they’d been seeking, then he wanted him in a cage. They needed to question him, to learn . . . had more women been taken? Were their more victims who needed closure?

  We won’t know. Wade sighed. “But then things escalated. Troy was about to shoot Matthew, he was going to kill him.” Wade was certain of this. “I had to stop him.”

  Because he’d suspected Matthew would have just been Troy’s first victim in that little shootout. I would have been the second. And then Victoria . . . Wade feared she would have been killed last. The better to enjoy her pain.

  His gaze slid around the perimeter. He and Victoria had been separated as soon as the cops arrived. Wade knew that was standard operating procedure, the better for the cops to be able to question them separately—­and then compare the statements they provided.

  “Why the hell,” Dace wanted to know, “was Matthew so convinced Troy was the killer? How did he know?”

  “You’d have to ask him that,” Wade said flatly.

  “Yeah, but you and Victoria were here, too, talking with the psych doctor. So you must have been suspicious. What tipped you off?”

  Wade had just caught sight of Victoria’s red hair, gleaming beneath the sunlight. “She knew,” he finally said. “Victoria is the one who convinced me to come by here. Said something about the guy was nagging at her. Something he’d said the first time they met.”

  “And what would that be?”

  She thought he knew that she’d killed her father.

  Wade gave him a tired smile. “He was involved with both women who’d gone missing. Too much of a coincidence, right? So we didn’t head to the plane that’s waiting for us. We came here, to see if we could rattle his cage a bit.”

  The doors to the Life Sciences building opened then and a black body bag was wheeled out.

  “Oh, I’d say his cage was rattled,” Dace murmured.

  Wade clenched his jaw. “You think I liked shooting him? That I wanted to take a life?”

  Dace lifted his brows. “I think you’d do anything, if it meant that Dr. Palmer was safe.”

  He wasn’t going to deny that very basic truth.

  “I’d like to know more about that ‘hunch’ of hers,” Dace said. “Wonder . . . would it have anything to do with the fact that Dr. North was at her father’s trial? See, I did a little digging on my own . . . that text she got on her phone about her father . . . it made me curious.”

  Wade held his gaze. “Nothing to be curious about there. The killer was jerking her around.”

  “Ah . . .” Dace’s smile was grim. “There it is again. You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? Kill? Fight? Even lie to protect her?”

  Hell, yes.

  “Detective Black!” The cry cut through the hum of voices filling the courtyard area.

  Dace’s head jerked toward it. A uniformed cop stood just outside the Life Sciences building. “We found—­” The cop cut himself off and ran toward Dace. When he reached him and Wade he staggered to a stop. His breath heaved out and his cheeks were flushed bright red. “Sir, there was a . . . a file in the bottom of Dr. North’s desk.”

  “What kind of file?”

  “Pictures . . . so many pictures . . .” The cop looked sick. “Of a woman, with dark hair. She was . . . she was tied to a bed. I—­I think . . . the photos look like the missing persons’ poster of Kennedy Lane. You know, before she—­”

  Became nothing but bones.

  “It was him,” the cop said, giving a firm shake of his head. “It was that professor all along.”

  Dace looked toward the M.E.’s van. “He was the first person I interviewed when I got the case . . .”

  The M.E. slammed the back door of the van.

  “I could’ve stopped him,” Dace said. “Fucking hell.”

  THE CHILL WOULDN’T leave her body. No matter what Victoria did, she just couldn’t seem to feel warm. She was at the police station—­in Dace’s office, and Wade was with her.

  The cops had talked to Matthew Walker—­he’d backed up their story. She didn’t know if the guy would be charged with anything—­He brought a loaded gun onto that college campus—­but she knew Wade was in the clear.

  “Yeah, yeah, Gabe, I know . . . we were supposed to be on the damned plane.” Wade slanted a fast glance at her as he talked on the phone. “But we hit a snag. Yeah, I’d call a guy trying to kill us both a bit of a snag.”

  A shiver shook her. It was hot in the office. Hot enough to sweat, so why did she feel so cold? Victoria glanced down at her hands. No blood was on them. Not now.

  “Backup?” Wade’s voice floated to her. “I don’t know if we need it right now. Hell, that would have been good to know a few hours ago.”

  Her eyes closed as she leaned back in her chair.

  “We’re waiting to hear from the detective in charge. Dace Black . . . Yeah, he’s a good guy. Once he gives us the all-­clear, we can head back to Atlanta . . . Sure. I’ll meet the fellow at the B&B . . . Asher Young. I got it. Thanks.” There was a long pause, and Wade’s voice turned gruff as he said, “No. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Forget that shit, man. Just forget it.”

  Her eyes opened. She saw Wade put the phone down on Dace’s desk. His back was to her and his broad shoulders seemed tense.

  “What happened to the plane?” She cleared her throat because her voice had come out husky. “Is it . . . you told him we weren’t leaving today, right?” They couldn’t. Not in the middle of an active investigation like this one. The guilty run. And they had to prove that the shooting had been justified.

  Don’t . . . t-­trust him . . .

  “The pilot took care of it. The plane is going to be waiting for us when we have the all-­clear to return home.” He turned to face her, propping his hips against the desk. “Seems we’ve got a new LOST member. Asher Young. He’s a former SEAL, a guy Gabe worked with during his time for Uncle Sam. Gabe vouches for him. Says he’s the kind of man you can count on.” He inclined his head toward her. “And he happens to be our pilot. He’ll be taking a room at the B&B while we get the last of this case sorted out.”

  “Another SEAL?” She was surprised. “Why—­” Victoria broke off, not really sure how to word her question. The people who worked at LOST were so diverse—­a detective, a psychiatrist, a former FBI agent, but . . .

  “Gabe thinks our last few missions have been on the dangerous side. He wants more backup for the agents in the field, and he wanted someone who was used to . . . being in the shit.”

  She blinked.

  “Gabe wants the guy to stay close, just in case . . .” His words trailed off.

  “In case of what? Troy isn’t going to hurt anyone else.” Not any longer. It was hard for the dead to hurt others. Unless you let them.

  The door opened. Dace stood there. The lines on his face were deeper than she’d seen before. “Found your phone, Wade.” He had an evidence bag in his hand. “It was at Troy North’s house.”

  Victoria’s breath expelled in a rush. Another nail in Troy’s coffin.

  “And I talked more with Matthew Walker. He said that North knew about Walker’s affair with Melissa Hastings, and that he thought Troy was jealous. No, ‘obsessed’ with the woman.”

  An obsession that led to death.

  “It looks pretty open and shut,” Dace said as he strode to his desk. But he didn’t sit. He ran a hand through his hair and peered out the small window on the right. “The killer’s dead. My boss . . . hell, the captain doesn’t want any charges
pressed against Walker. Says we’ll come across as bullies if we do, and he thinks the press will have a field day, especially seeing as how we thought that guy was the killer.”

  Wade regarded him with a guarded stare. “What about my shooting?”

  “You’re clear. Self-­defense is hard to argue with in this case, not when you’ve got two witnesses who corroborate your story.” Dace’s hand sawed over his jaw and the heavy shadow that was growing there. “Jim Porter woke up. Couldn’t talk, but he wrote down some answers to my questions. He didn’t remember who’d attacked him. Never saw the guy’s face but . . . but he did say that Melissa had been worried about Troy North. She’d mentioned a few times that he made her nervous.”

  He’d made Victoria feel nervous that first day, too. “He was so interested in secrets.”

  Dace’s hand fell as he glanced over at Wade. “Yeah, well, considering how many dark secrets that guy was dragging around, makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  The case was over. Closed. “Are there more dead?” Victoria asked. That question had been haunting her. Were there more victims out there?

  “Don’t know yet. My crime team is tearing apart North’s home and his office. If I find anything . . .” Dace exhaled and his shoulders dropped. “. . . you can bet I’ll call you.”

  Wade offered his hand to the detective.

  Dace took it and gave a hard shake.

  “You didn’t know,” Wade said. “When you interviewed him . . . you don’t always know when you’re staring at a monster.”

  Dace backed up a step. “You should know, though. Someone that evil, you should be able to see it in them. I interviewed him three times after Kennedy Lane went missing. Never knew the truth . . . three times,” he muttered, a faint furrow between his brows.

  Victoria stepped forward. “Sometimes, evil is too good at hiding.”

  He glanced at her.

  “And no matter how hard you look, you just can’t see it.” The cops sure hadn’t seen the truth about her father. Victoria offered him her hand. His fingers—­slightly callused—­closed around hers. “Thank you for giving those women justice.”

  He held her hand. Stared into her eyes. “Thank you for that,” he murmured.

  She pulled her hand free. It was time to go home.

  Wade opened the door, held it for her. She turned away from Dace.

  “Dr. Palmer . . .”

  Victoria looked back at the detective. His head was cocked as he studied her.

  “You know . . . I think I would have believed you. If you’d come to me and told me about your father, I would have helped you.”

  Her heart was suddenly beating far too fast.

  “Bet it was incredibly hard,” he murmured. “Living with a monster like that.”

  Harder than you can imagine.

  “You would have to do whatever was necessary,” Dace continued, voice quiet, almost sad, “in order to survive.”

  He knows.

  “Good-­bye, Dr. Palmer,” Dace said. “I wish you well.”

  She tried not to run from that little office. Her pounding heartbeat echoed in her ears. She didn’t speak to Wade, not until they were out of the police station and back inside their rented SUV. As soon as the doors closed, sealing them inside, she turned to him. “Wade—­”

  He leaned across the seat and kissed her. The kiss stole her breath. Her hands lifted and locked around his shoulders. She meant to push him back. Instead, she pulled him closer. She kissed him—­her mouth open and almost desperate in an instant. Fear still rode her—­fear for what the detective knew, fear for what she could have lost because of Troy North and blasting gunfire.

  So much fear.

  She was ready for that fear to vanish.

  Wade kissed her with a hungry, complete focus. As if nothing else mattered. Almost as if nothing else even existed. Tears stung her eyes as she held onto him.

  She’d tried to avoid strings with him. That had been her rule, from the very beginning, but she knew the truth now. She was bound to him so tightly, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to let go.

  How could she?

  Very slowly, Wade’s lips pulled away from hers. He stared down at her. “I can’t lose you.”

  She shook her head. “That isn’t happening.”

  “As soon as I saw his arms around you—­I saw North’s eyes, they were so desperate—­I would have done anything to stop him. I was looking at a dead man the minute he grabbed you.” His breath rasped out and he let her go. “What the hell does that say about me?”

  He turned away, his hands curling around the steering wheel.

  Victoria reached out to him. “Do you think I’m not the same?”

  His arm tensed beneath her touch.

  “Do you truly think . . .” Victoria continued, “that I wouldn’t kill to keep you safe?”

  His head angled toward her.

  “You’ve changed things for me,” Victoria said. And, yes, this vehicle—­in front of the police station—­probably wasn’t the spot to have this little talk, but she wasn’t going to hold back. Not any longer. “I want to be with you. I’m scared of myself—­yes, I still am. I won’t lie. Scared of what I might become. But I’m more afraid of not being with you.” Because she had more hope when she was with him. She was . . . ­happier.

  Even if they were facing monsters.

  “Baby, giving you up wasn’t ever an option for me.” He cranked the car.

  “It’s not an option for me, either,” Victoria whispered.

  They pulled away from the curb. And as they drove away, she saw that Dace had walked out of the station. He stood on the sidewalk, watching them as they left.

  “ARE YOU IN any pain?” the pretty little blond nurse asked him, her brows pulling together. She’d just adjusted his medication—­giving him another wonderful dose of morphine, so pain was the last thing Matthew felt.

  “No,” he said, making sure that his voice came out weak and a little slurred. “I can handle it.”

  Admiration filled her blue eyes. Wide blue eyes. “You caught that killer today, didn’t you?”

  Matthew almost smiled. “Just . . . tried to stop someone . . . from hurting others . . .”

  Her hand lingered on his arm. “You did a good thing. A brave thing.” She gave him a sad smile. “That poor fellow he attacked . . . he’s on the same floor with you.”

  Is he? What a coincidence.

  “He’s not in very good condition.” She gave a little sad shake of her head. “Someone needed to catch his attacker. And to think . . . it was another professor at the college.” She sighed softly. “I guess you can never know people.”

  No, you couldn’t. Not who they really were, beneath the skin.

  She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “If you need anything, just hit that button on your right. I’ll come straight in for you.”

  He was sure she would.

  Matthew watched her as she hurried from the room. Nice ass. Firm and high. He bet she was a runner. With those long legs, she’d be a great runner.

  He liked runners. Loved to watch them move ahead of him. Loved to chase them.

  Loved to catch them.

  He lay in bed as the morphine slipped through his veins. It was cold, and he could imagine it as ice sliding through him, moving ever so slowly until it covered him completely.

  His injuries weren’t that bad. It pissed him off, certainly, because he didn’t like being hurt. He’d never expected old Troy to put up such a fight. He’d known Troy kept that gun in his desk drawer. The guy was always so paranoid about his safety. Probably because he’d spent too much time with criminals during his early days as a psychiatrist.

  The drawer had been open once, when Matthew paid a little visit to see Melissa. He’d remembered that gun and thought . . .

 
All I have to do is show up, armed. He’ll react. He’ll grab for the weapon.

  And North had. So perfectly. Acting as if on cue.

  He glanced at the big round clock on the wall and figured the pretty nurse must be back at her station. Matthew eased from the bed. He stood for a moment, swaying a little. Then he smiled. His hand grabbed for the IV machine. He was sure it had some other technical name, but he didn’t give a fuck what it was. He grabbed it and pulled it along with him. The wheels rolled with a soft squeak. The stitches in his shoulder pulled a bit as he walked. Maybe he’d get some more morphine for that pull when he got back. He’d call in that sweet runner of a nurse.

  He opened his door. Looked left and looked right. The linoleum gleamed beneath his feet. So . . . Jim Porter was on this floor. Wonderfully convenient. But which room was his?

  Matthew started walking. The wheels squeaked again, and the noise seemed too damn loud. He took his time, though. If someone spotted him, if a nurse appeared, he’d just act confused.

  Morphine could do that to a person. Make him all disoriented.

  His gaze slid toward the doors. Names were written on them—­just last names. Oh, that made things easy.

  He just kept walking, looking for the right door.

  A janitor headed toward him. The guy barely even glanced his way.

  A young man in scrubs followed behind him. Again, not even a second look.

  Hospitals. Got to love them.

  Then Matthew found the door he needed. Porter. He opened it and pulled his squeaking buddy along with him. Maybe he should have taken out the IV before this little trip, but—­nah, why bother?

  The curtain was pulled around the bed. His left hand rose and pushed it back. The man in the bed had his eyes closed. Monitors beeped beside him. Heavy white bandages covered his throat.

  Matthew crept closer to the bed.

  The wheels squeaked again.

  And Jim Porter’s eyes flew open, locking on him.

  Matthew smiled. “Hello, there . . .”