“Are you okay, Ms. McFadden?”
“I'm fine, Detective. I'm going to have a shower. I'd appreciate some privacy.”
“Of course, ma'am. Sorry.”
She turned on the shower. The heated water steamed the room in no time; curling vapors warmed her neck, her arms. Sorcha stripped, her mind whirling from one tangent to another. For fifteen years, her mind had blocked her childhood memories. Would remembering this lyric trigger other revelations?
Everything pointed to that fateful night, the night her father killed her mother and himself, and tried to kill his only child. The night she still couldn't remember.
Temples throbbing, she showered, lathering three times, and wished she could scrub away the black film hazing her early childhood as easily as the soap bubbles washed off her skin. A band compressed her lungs, and she had to take short, quick breaths to alleviate her dizziness. It took all the energy she had left to towel off. Her long white T-shirt hung on a hook from the bathroom door. She tugged it over her head.
Stumbling across the bedroom, she crashed onto the mattress and slipped under the covers. Her eyes chased the slow circling of the ceiling fan visible only because the moon hit the roof's skylight at a certain angle. She'd always thought Grams moved them to Penticton to get away from the gossip and the rumors, to give her a chance at a normal adolescence.
Could there have been other reasons?
And the recurring nightmare?
How did it all fit together?
“Sorcha?” Gray's low baritone penetrated her mental wanderings.
“I'm awake.” She sat up. “Has Ted gone?”
“Yeah.” The one word shouted his exhaustion.
She switched on the lamp. “I can tell from the look on your face. It was bad, wasn't it?”
“Yeah.”
“Let's go sit on the porch for a while. I think I need some fresh air,” Sorcha suggested. Too many thoughts buffeted her mind for sleep, for clarity. First Grams, now Miss L.
But Miss L had been murdered; Sorcha balled her fists so hard she winced when her nails bit into her palms. Don't picture it; don't think about the smell of blood; don't think about her fear, the pain.
“Are you sure you're up to this?”
No. But she had to hear the details from him, and it had to be right now, tonight. “I owe it to both of them, Gray. To honor their deaths.” She flipped back the sheets and rolled off the bed.
His arms curled under her knees, and he lifted her into his arms.
She should resist, should insist he put her down, should walk alone.
She loved being held safe and snug by this man.
“Gray.” Sorcha splayed her palm on his shirt. Distance—for his sake, she had to keep her distance. She squared her shoulders and tried not to inhale his comforting scent, tried to keep her muscles tense, but her body craved his contact and she melted into his embrace.
He'd opened the sliding glass doors before he entered the bedroom. A stiff wind greeted them, lifting her loose hair, ruffling his dark locks. Sorcha buried her nose in the soft cotton covering his pectorals. God give her the strength to be brave, to leave him.
Gray thumped onto the long bench lining the west half of the dock. He nuzzled her neck, his tongue drawing a tight circle in the hollow at her throat. “Why did you ask about your grandmother's weight earlier?”
Damn, the man had a way of zeroing in that proved particularly annoying. She stared unseeing at the lake, the surface a series of enigmatic, rippling obsidian waves.
“You decided to leave me tonight, didn't you?”
Oh God. How had he known? She bowed her head, bit her quivering lower lip, and willed back the tears.
“How did you know?” Sorcha whispered, her voice wavering as she picked at his third shirt button.
“The way you kissed me earlier. The way you shut down on me.” He tipped her chin up, and his dark, fathomless eyes held pools of moisture. “You are my mate. The only one I will ever have. If you leave me, I'll spend the rest of my life alone. There's no worse fate for a wolf. I'll crave your touch. Every time I scent you, I'll be bereft. Every time I see you, I'll mourn your loss. Would you willingly do this to me? To us?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she couldn't get out a single word.
“Let me tell you what I think you're thinking.” His lips crooked up. “You don't think your grandmother died a natural death. Miss L's murder made you panic and decide to run for the hills. You're having a recurring nightmare that somehow relates to this town and, I'd guess, your parents' deaths.” Gray's warm palms crept under her T-shirt and around her waist. “How'm I doing?”
He hadn't once allowed her gaze to drift from his, and Sorcha knew she couldn't leave him, wouldn't leave him. She took a deep breath. The truth then. “I have something to show you.” Her fingers toyed with his collar, followed a vein beating in his corded neck. She offered him a hand, and he twined their fingers together and kissed her knuckles.
“Lead on, Sorcha.”
She pulled Gray to his feet and tugged him into the living room. “Wait here.” Sorcha made her way to the walk-in closet, retrieved Grams's note and the key, and returned to the dining area. Gray had focused on the lyrics she'd left lying on the table. His head whipped up, and he asked, “This is the lyric you were trying to remember?”
She nodded.
Dark brows met as he frowned and shook his head. “I don't get it.”
“You remember how obsessed Grams was with anything fae?”
“Yeah, everyone knew about her and Miss L and their leprechauns and fairies. What does that have to do with you wanting to leave me? With your Grams's death and Miss L's murder?”
Sorcha handed him the note and the key and told him how she had interpreted the lyrics, about her eighth birthday and the bank in Spokane.
“Why didn't you tell me about this?” He didn't look angry, but instead confused and irritated.
“I didn't know what it meant until I remembered the lyrics tonight.” She swallowed. “I just had this feeling that something was wrong the minute I got Grams's note.”
“You suspected Aileen was murdered from the first.” Gray drew her onto his lap, and three lines etched the space above the bridge of his nose. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“All my life I've been that strange girl whose daddy tried to kill her, the girl with no memory. Wherever I went, if the story came out, people began to look at me as if I'd escaped from a mental hospital.” She shrugged. “I've learned the hard way to always appear normal. To never do anything that would draw attention or cause gossip.”
“And I came along and claimed you as my mate. Told you I was part white wolf. That's why you shut down on me tonight.” Gray tunneled both hands through his hair. “At first I thought you were pissed at me because… You know.”
“The punishment? You'd better not ever do that to me again, Gray Theodore White.” Anger resurged, blazing through her veins and arteries. She jabbed her palms onto her hips.
“You've every right to be furious with me, honey. I went too far.” A stain of a tantalizing ruby-rose hue crept up the hollows formed by Gray's ridged cheekbones, and her sudden fury ebbed like a Washington-coast tide.
Sorcha recognized the apology took a lot out of Gray. His wolf nature revolved around domination, on inherent leadership and control. On impulse, she leaned forward and suckled the spot where his thick, corded neck merged into broad shoulders. Gray's skin tasted of the salt of his sweat; he smelled of coffee and the outdoors and the spiciness of his arousal. She loved that she did that to him. Turned him on in a heartbeat.
He growled. “Hold that thought, honey. Miss L's murder changes everything. We need to be very focused and very careful. I'm taking it only you and I know about this key?”
She nodded, twirling a lock of his hair around her forefinger. “I think maybe Miss L might have known. She and Grams were so close.”
“Explain to me how you only remembered the lyr
ics and the bank tonight.” His arm curled around her waist, and he drew her closer.
“I wish I could.” She shook her head. “I don't understand how I could lose my childhood entirely. I know this all centers around the night my parents died.” Knowing she could never share her agonizing anxiety about inheriting her father's violent traits, she skated over her next words. “Up until now, I couldn't remember anything related to my parents before I turned fifteen. It's funny—I have clear memories of playing with Susie, of Grams, of Kumar and Harold, but not much else. Nothing at all. Until tonight. All of a sudden, I remembered little things—making cookies with Mom, my first dance recital.”
“Remembering the lyrics triggered those memories?”
Concern for her creased lines in his forehead, crinkled fine lines in the tanned skin bracketing his black eyes. She blinked away threatening tears and stroked the back of her knuckles along his jaw. Not capable of speech, she nodded.
“And you think this key fits a safe-deposit box?” Gray said as he glanced from the key to the note to the lyrics.
“If the bank is still standing.” She studied his features, waiting for the slightest hint of disbelief or scorn, the narrowing of his eyes or the thinning of his mouth, but his features remained even, composed. “I think someone poisoned Grams, and at the end, she knew she was dying. And I don't think it's any coincidence Miss L's been murdered. This has something to do with me.”
He kissed the tip of her nose and let out a long sigh, his breath feathering her lips and chin. “I'm going to put on a pot of coffee. Want a cup?”
“No, I'll put on the kettle for tea. I don't think that look on your face means you have happy news to impart.”
“I wish I did, honey.” His lips, warm and dry and soft, brushed hers. He carried her to the kitchen and deposited her on the granite counter. “During the last fifteen years, we've identified the work of a serial killer in and around Twisp. Five murders, all with the same MO. The bodies are hacked apart.”
A serial murderer? In Twisp? Population: 935?
“Whaat?” Sorcha asked. “But I've never heard of a serial murderer in Twisp. Grams never mentioned anything.”
“We actually didn't put everything together until about three and a half years ago.” Gray turned on the tap and filled the coffee decanter with water. “And then only because we had to enter all records for the last fifteen years into the computer.”
“Why are you telling me this, Gray? A serial murderer couldn't have anything to do with me.” A grimace darkened his features, Sorcha winced.
He filled a stainless-steel kettle from the faucet and placed it on a burner. Flames flickered to life under the appliance. Pouring water into the coffeemaker's well, he continued, “Miss L's murder fits the MO of the serial killer to a tee.”
He set the carafe under the coffee spout and hit Start. A loud whirring punctuated the silence in the kitchen. The pungent aroma of the brew percolating permeated the cabin.
“Around fourteen years ago, the body of one Yaeger Schmidt, a German businessman, was discovered by his girlfriend in a rented log cabin near Waterville. He had ax and stab wounds. Blood was everywhere inside the cabin. No fingerprints, footprints, no sign of a break-in.”
When the kettle whistled, Gray asked, “Tea?”
“Above the toaster. Peppermint, please.” Sorcha pointed at the cabinet. “So two foreigners on vacation, one murdered nastily. Was anything stolen?”
“Yes. Robbery seemed to be the clear motive. No one had any reason to suspect anything else.”
Something he'd said earlier tweaked her memory. “What did you mean about finding out because of having to enter the records into the computer?”
“When the new station was built, all our written records had to be computerized. Henry loves math puzzles. He did most of the data entry of our records and noticed the similarities in the MOs. One night when he was bored, he calculated the days between the murders.” Gray spooned the teabag out of the mug and held the cup out to Sorcha. “Turns out there are exactly one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight days between each murder. Kristen Frank, a Canadian college student on holiday, was the next victim as far as we can figure. She was found at a campsite on Osoyoos Lake.”
“One thousand three hundred and sixty-eight days later?” When Gray nodded, she continued, “That's right on the border, isn't it?” Sorcha blew the liquid in the cup; moist heat warmed her chin. “Was she stabbed too?”
“Hacked, multiple stab wounds. The tent was covered in blood, yet not a drop outside, no footprints, nothing. She and her boyfriend and another couple had come down on spring break. The guys went duck hunting while the girls relaxed. The other girl found Kristen's body and called nine-one-one.”
“So we have a college student and businessman,” she mused. “I'm guessing a big age difference between the two?”
“Fifty-three and twenty, respectively,” Gray replied. “Again, exactly one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight days later, the body of one Donna Taunton was discovered by her new husband on the second day of their honeymoon.”
“How awful. The second day of their honeymoon? Poor man. He must have been devastated. Was she hacked and stabbed too?” Sorcha sipped her tea, amazed she'd managed not to vomit so far.
“Yeah.” Gray leaned against the counter, one palm cradling his mug. “Donna was a late bloomer, first marriage at forty-three. Husband was a suspect for a while, as he was thirteen years younger and a bit of a drifter, a construction worker. But there was no insurance, and her will left everything to a niece.”
“That's two women and one man, a twenty-year-old, a woman of forty-three, and a man of fifty-three.” She could see no common link between the three victims. “And nothing was stolen in any of these crimes?”
“Schmidt had just under ten thousand in cash and several credit cards, according to his girlfriend. All of it was taken. The women didn't have much cash, but none of it was taken. Taunton had a couple of credit cards, which were still in her wallet. She was still wearing an engagement ring that set her husband back at least two months' salary.”
“I guess you've been over this a thousand times?” Sorcha studied his grim expression, the dull bleakness of his dark eyes.
“I've only been on the job six years, honey. Henry's been the one obsessed with this. All of the murders happened on his watch. Only one's happened on mine until tonight.”
Miss L's beautiful, lined features rose in her mind. Sorcha bit her lips and pushed forward, determined not to break down. “Go on. Who was next?”
“The fourth victim was one Mark Spring. Interior designer from Seattle on vacation with his significant other, a chemical engineer.”
“And this one was exactly one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight days after Donna?”
“Yeah.”
“And Miss L's murder?” she asked. “Same timing?”
“No. We were expecting another one on the twenty-ninth. That, plus the fact that all the bodies have been intact prior to Miss L, leads us to think he's escalating. ”
Sorcha inhaled the fragrant peppermint steam curling from the teacup and managed to swallow the sourness rising up her throat. She would not think about Miss L in pieces; she would not picture all that blood. The teacup jerked brown liquid onto the counter.
Gray's hands enfolded the cup and saucer. Her grip loosened. Sorcha slid to the floor and raced to the toilet.
Dinner spewed out of her mouth. Sorcha vomited compulsively, tears flowing down her cheeks. Gray's arm supported her waist. Twisting her hair, he curled the locks around one hand and held it away from her face.
“Let it all out, honey. Let it all out.” Knuckles dashed away the tears from her skin. When her heaves subsided, Gray placed a glass to her lips. “Take little sips.”
“I feel like I'm living in a horror movie.” Sorcha hiccupped. “Like I have no control over anything. As if someone's directing everything.”
He didn't say a word, didn
't try to deny her words, and his silence ate at her soul. She lifted her head and met his studied stare. “It's true, then?”
Long fingers trailed her neck caressing Sorcha's cheeks. “We have no proof, but my wolf instincts tell me someone or something is after you. Ever since that first night we met again, I haven't wanted you out of my sight, not for a second. That alone tells me my inner wolf senses danger for you. Right now we have a whole bunch of parallel events that may or may not be related.” He sighed and stood, lifting her high against his chest, and elbowed the bathroom door open.
“I don't understand,” she said, trying to read meaning into the grim set of his full lips and the fierceness dilating his pupils, making his eyes obsidian, devoid of any lightness. She stroked his face as he settled on the mattress with her on his lap, her legs curled around his hips.
“We have the four identified victims of the serial killer. We have the note Aileen mailed from Penticton, your suspicions about her death, and Harold's and Miss L's murders. Are these all parallel events, or are they interconnected in some way?”
“Oh. I hadn't thought of it like that. What about Kevin Hazard's murder? Is that related?” His hand curved up and down her spine, trailing warmth across her back.
“Only if he's been stabbed. Tonight, we discovered one thing the murders had in common—a toe severed from the right foot. Most serial killers I've studied take mementos. I'm guessing that's his.”
“That's so sick,” she mumbled. Her eyelids suddenly became anchors. Sorcha snuggled closer to his chest, and a huge yawn captured her mouth.
“Tired?” His lips and nose fit into the spot where her shoulder connected with her neck. Hot breath spiked goose bumps down her arms. Her lids fluttered and she folded her hands under a cheek, relishing the safety of Gray's embrace.
“Mmm,” she murmured.
“Do you remember being happy as a child?” He couldn't keep the curiosity out of his voice.
She smiled, and a stray chest hair tickled her lips. “I think I was. I was an only child, so I must have had a lot of attention. I know Grams spoiled me. Everything I remembered tonight about my mom was happy. And those lyrics I wrote as a child, those all point to me being happy.”
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