Joe rolled his eyes. “I don't envy you that one. Dealing with Brucie ain't my idea of fun. The tribe banned him from the resort last month. Caught him cheating on camera.”
“Bruce? Caught?” Gray asked. “Hell must have fucking frozen over. I have an appointment in Spokane right after this, so today is out. Let's plan it for tomorrow, noonish.” Gray caught a glimpse of Sorcha's auburn curls. “Tell Chad and Mike, will ya? And not a word to the women. Not until we know what we face.”
Gray stood.
“We all ready?” Susie asked.
“Yeah, come here, sweetheart,” Joe ordered, crooking his finger at his wife.
Susie smiled at him and slipped under his arm. “Why don't you two come over for dinner tonight?”
“Can't.” He needed, craved, time alone with Sorcha, time spent loving each other. He sensed Sorcha's surprise, the little peek at his face. “Too much on my plate right now. Another time. Promise.”
Outside the diner, Gray and Sorcha murmured their good-byes to the other couple and made a quick getaway.
“We'll take my car. I'll have one of the guys drive yours over later.” Gray flipped his palm over and wriggled his fingers.
She shot him a baleful look and pursed her mouth, but dropped a ring of keys into his hand.
Sorcha remained silent until they hit the A20.
“I remembered the key for the box.”
Gray realized he'd been brooding, puzzling through each murder. He twined their fingers together and rested her knuckles on his thigh. “I knew you would, honey. You approach everything professionally.”
“Do you mean that?”
Her tone prompted Gray to study her profile. “Why would you ask that?”
Gray set the SUV on cruise and adjusted the air conditioner as they turned west and the sun hit the front windshield head-on. He turned the radio to an all-news station and lowered the volume to a hum.
“You won't let my feet touch the ground when we're alone. You cook our food, shampoo my hair. It all points to you thinking me helpless and incompetent.”
He couldn't stifle his guffaw. “Oh, honey, that's the wolf in me. Have you ever watched a documentary on wolves?”
“Not really.” Sorcha crossed her legs and adjusted the flower-patterned skirt she wore.
“We're affectionate to a fault. Touching, licking, biting, sniffing are vital to us, to me. I have instinctive urges that I managed to control until I met you. I'm the oldest in my family, and I'm the alpha of my pack. I have a compulsive need to dominate and protect. To command and ensure my commands are obeyed. Carrying you, caring for you, cleaning you, all of these are essential to me. That doesn't mean I don't respect your intelligence or your competence. I do.”
“I see,” she said. “I'll bear that in mind the next time I want to thwack the back of your head.”
“Say again?” What the heck did she mean?
“I guess you don't watch NCIS. The commander of the unit, Gibbs, taps the back of his employees' heads when they do something dumb.” She grinned at him and aimed an open palm at the back of his head, making a slight brushing contact. “Like that, only harder.”
“I love your sense of humor,” he said, batting his eyelashes at her.
“You think I'm joking?'
He knew she wasn't and that she wouldn't let him forget how much she resented his punishment. Fuck, he'd screwed up and he'd admitted it; she'd better move on. Silence fell. A quick glance showed her chewing on her plump bottom lip.
“What's on your mind?”
“I keep wondering what we'll find at the bank.”
“Have you remembered anything else?” He'd deliberately avoided thinking about Sorcha's past, about her parents. They had enough to sort out.
“Not really.” Sorcha let out a long sigh, and he inhaled the mint from the Altoid she'd sucked after their meal. “No matter how hard I try, the memories are vague. Everything I remember is blurred. I imagine it's the way a person who normally wears glasses would see a page. You can see the black-and-white words, but you can't read a single one.”
Gray couldn't imagine being so calm in the face of so much uncertainty. By now, he'd be baring teeth and snarling and snapping at everyone. Yet he couldn't scent rage, just worry and confusion.
They entered the outskirts of Spokane.
“My, it's grown, hasn't it?” Sorcha glanced from her window to his. “I don't remember any of this.”
“When was the last time you were here, honey?”
“The weekend before my fifteenth birthday. Grams told me later that Mom had taken me on a shopping spree here in the city. She kept the clothes Mom had bought me that weekend. I couldn't even look at them. I know Grams kept them. They're probably in one of those boxes in her study.”
His heart ached for her. That explained why she used the dining room table instead of the spacious study in the cabin.
“Here we are,” he said as he pulled into the parking garage for the Bank of Spokane.
Within the half hour it took to access the safe-deposit box, Sorcha's composure deteriorated to the point where her hands shook. Her trembling fingers couldn't get the key into the locked box.
“Let me,” he said as he relieved her of the key.
The attendant left them in a small room off the safe area. Gray dumped the gym bag he'd brought in anticipation and then placed the metal box onto a counter.
Sorcha stared at the closed container. Dread and alarm rolled off her body in waves, battering his nostrils.
“Do you want me to do it, honey?” He captured her hand between both of his and rubbed warmth into her icy, damp flesh.
“Please,” she answered.
Letting her hand fall away, she motioned for him to go ahead.
Gray flipped the lid up and took out a brown, legal-sized envelope to reveal a weathered, leather-bound book. Three fat purple velvet pouches bordered the tome.
Sorcha gasped.
He turned to her and immediately curled an arm around her waist. “Are you okay, honey? You're whiter than new snow.”
She met his glance, and he winced at the sheer terror dilating her pupils so wide, the blue of her irises almost disappeared. Panic radiated from her pores, and he knew she teetered on the verge of complete hysteria.
He had to get her to a familiar, safe environment. Keeping his arm fixed around her waist, he stuffed the contents of the box into the gym bag. Keeping up a steady murmur of coaxing and reassurance, he grabbed the container and the bag and hipped the door open.
Gray scared the crapola out of the bank's staff, but he achieved his sole objective: getting Sorcha into the SUV before she fainted. He knew her mind had shut down, that she might hear him speaking, but the words didn't register.
Maintaining a steady stream of conversation, he activated his sheriff's lights and broke all speed limits. Sorcha curled sideways on the passenger seat and sat staring into space for the entire journey. When they arrived at the log cabin, Gray scooped her into his arms and headed for the front door. While he fumbled with the key, her breathing changed, all the tension seeped out of her body, and she went limp. One glance at her slackened features confirmed all the symptoms—Sorcha had passed out.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the sliding glass doors. White greeted them as he stepped into the living room, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
“Hey, boy,” Gray whispered. “Stay.”
In quick order, he had Sorcha in her sleeping T-shirt and under the covers. He drew the blinds and half closed the bedroom door. Leaving the front door ajar, he jogged to the car and retrieved his gym bag and Sorcha's purse.
After setting both items on the dining room table and checking on Sorcha, he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. While waiting for the coffeemaker, Gray phoned Henry.
“Coroner finished?”
“Yep. Shit, this is getting weirder and weirder.”
“Spill it.” What had gone wrong now? He dragged a hand through his hair.
&nbs
p; “Hazard had a number of stab wounds in his back. Coroner says a long, narrow blade made the wounds. Wanted to give me ten-to-one odds that the same blade was used on Miss L.” Henry blew out a long sigh.
“And we never noticed he was stabbed before because…?” Gray ground out, his jaw clenching.
“We're trained not to interfere with a crime scene, and the coroner's men loaded him back down onto a stretcher, and transferred him to the slab the same way,” Henry snapped. “The wounds were small enough, Wicks thought they were cuts. He was cut up all over. Only the coroner could tell how deep they were.”
Gray closed his eyes and counted to ten. “My bad, Henry. This is all screwed up. The serial killer shouldn't have struck again, not so soon anyway. And this is not his MO.”
The coffee machine sputtered, and he grabbed a mug from the dish drainer.
“Yeah, I know. I've been going nuts trying to figure out what the fuck we're missing.” Henry sounded as exasperated and frustrated and pissed as Gray was.
“I don't know when I'll be in, but it won't be for a while. Call me if anything new comes up.”
After he poured the heavenly-smelling liquid into the mug, Gray fed and watered White, and then settled down at the dining room table.
The legal envelope contained one single slip of paper of a quality akin to vellum. Gray rolled his eyes—Aileen's obsession with the Fae continued from the grave. For long seconds, he debated not reading the document, but curiosity and his supreme overprotectiveness crowed victory.
My darling Sorcha,
If you are reading this, it means I am no longer alive. It also means I can no longer protect you. You must look to protect yourself. Trust no one.
But I must begin with an ending.
Darling girl, the night I discovered your parents dead and you wounded, but still breathing, was the worst night of my life.
You must forgive me, Sorcha. Seeing blood seeping from your head near made me insane. I'm afraid to say I panicked and the only thought in my brain was keeping you alive. In my near hysteria, I barely paid attention to what is now called “the scene of the crime.”
Over the last three months, I have bitterly regretted not glancing more than once at that living room more times than I can count.
My darling girl, I have come to believe that your parents were murdered.
And no, before you leap to conclusions, this isn't part of my “fae obsession,” as you so expressively put it the last time we had lunch over a year ago. This Christmas, I finally unpacked your parents' possessions, the four trunks that have sat in storage for over fifteen years.
I found your mother's diary on Christmas Eve.
Naturally, I turned to the last entry in the book.
Gray's pulse accelerated. He glanced at the open gym bag and spotted the hardcover volume he'd taken from the safe-deposit box. Swearing a blue streak under his breath at the potential Pandora's box, he gritted his teeth and returned to reading Aileen's letter.
To my dismay, the last entry was dated two years earlier. I read through the diary, and it confirmed everything I had always thought. I knew and loved your father from the time he first stepped foot in my house to the day he died. I have never ever been able to come to terms with what the police said he did that night.
He loved both his girls, and he was inherently a gentle man. Yes, he was well-known for his temper, but he wasn't a killer, darling girl. And never would he have harmed a child of his loins.
Reading your mother's thoughts, reliving those days, made me restless. I went to the main library in Spokane, and a kind young lady there helped me look through the microfilm copies of the newspaper articles about the “murder/suicide.”
So many things so obvious in hindsight.
My good friend, Donald Henley, was the county coroner at the time. Yet he wasn't called to the crime scene, and he didn't perform the autopsies. Only after I read those articles did I remember he had left several notes in my mailbox during the two months you were in the hospital. Donald had always had a “thing” for me, so I hadn't bothered to reply. He had moved away when I returned to live here, and at first, I couldn't locate him
That nice young lady in Spokane helped me find him on the Internet. I called him and spoke to him for some time. Donald had been taken off the case, the order issued from above, though no one could actually say who gave the order.
The whole thing bothered me. I mentioned my suspicions to Lilian, who agreed with me that the situation warranted more investigation. Then something remarkable occurred.
About a year ago, a young couple bought your parents'old house and began renovating, one room at a time. Two months ago, they brought three boxes of goods they'd found in the attic to the Goodwill store. Your mother's last diary was in there.
I read the words she wrote the morning she died.
Your mother, my daughter, had that day discovered she was pregnant. It had long been her wish to have another child, but though they tried and consulted doctors in Spokane, she never conceived. She was ecstatic, Sorcha, and she wrote about the joy and happiness she and Alistair had shared upon hearing the news.
Gray shook his head. He reread the sentence. Her mother had been pregnant? Nothing made sense if this was true.
Sorcha's whimper brought him out of his wandering musings. His sight zoomed in on her sleeping figure, and he waited and watched. Her chest rose and fell in a smooth, regular rhythm, and he relaxed, circling his head left, then right. Gray refocused on the thin vellum on the table.
I wish now I'd kept my suspicions to myself, but I was too anxious to learn more and thought if I spoke with the older members of the community, one of them might recall something that could help me.
It has been some six weeks since I felt well. It started with the occasional belly cramping. Before I knew it, my hair began shedding, my fingernails grew thin and brittle, and the cramping paralyzed me several times a day. I only suspected poisoning during the last three weeks.
Lately, I cannot shake the feeling of being followed.
I dare not mention this to anyone, as all the gossip seems to be of Louisa and I and our “fae obsession.”
I have little energy. I eat only the meals I cook. I am avoiding even Louisa's confections, though I dare not hurt her feelings by letting her find out.
Today, I made the journey to Spokane to leave this for you. Tomorrow, I will take the train to the border and post you the key and an obvious clue to this box.
I am dying, Sorcha, because I stirred a hornet's nest when I began to question how your parents died. Trust no one, my darling girl.
I leave you everything I own and these jewels, passed from one O'Riley generation to another.
My time is approaching, I ken it well. Grieve not for me, Sorcha, but look to your future. See in your mind your sons and daughters and weave them a world better than you have known.
I will always be in your dreams, Sorcha. You have only to close your eyes and I will come to you if you need me.
Your loving,
Grams
Chapter Ten
Sorcha fought waking up. She chucked the pillow on top of her face and squeezed her eyes shut. The silky cotton pillowcase smelled of Gray, smoky and spicy and all male. Every inhale seemed to cover her in a coat of protection, safety.
All at once, the events of the day before crowded her mind, and she flung the pillow across the room and sat up.
Something bad was going to happen today.
Snippets of the forgotten night, the banned night, the night her parents died, seeped into her brain: Miss L's famous chocolate cheesecake, the smell of coffee, a familiar face, a welcome face, a dissolving face. Panic welled an acid bitterness up her throat. Sorcha grabbed the other pillow and crushed it into her stomach. She would not vomit. No way.
White's gentle snoring wafted on an early-morning breeze, and the familiar, comforting noise made her pulse slow; she slumped against the headboard.
“How're you feeling
, honey?” Gray, dressed in low-slung sweatpants, sculpted ripples showcasing his bared chest, strode into the room carrying a mug in one hand.
She jerked, hit the back of her head on a metal rail, and wondered for the umpteenth time how such a big man could move so silently.
“Coffee,” she said and held out a hand.
He sat on the mattress and wiggled back and forth until she moved over a half inch and gave him room to settle. She liked the way he managed to touch her in every way possible, one arm around her shoulder, his hips stacking hers.
“Coffee,” he agreed and held the mug to her mouth.
She sipped and sighed as the liquid made its way down her throat, hot, soothing, bursting with flavor.
And in that moment she realized Gray would always be domineering, would always strive to facilitate her every move, would always carry her instead of allowing her feet to touch the ground. Yet the familiar anger and irritation at his overprotectiveness didn't ring through every nerve, didn't have her teeth grinding. Instead, she snuggled closer, laid her cheek on a bunched pectoral, and inhaled.
Oh God, she loved the way he smelled.
“Sorcha?” His finger tipped her chin. “How do you feel, honey?” He had set the cup on the bedside table.
Reality. She had to face the facts and the world. Sorcha knuckled her eye sockets and mumbled, “Okay, I guess.”
She cupped a hand over a wide yawn, met his gaze, and a sliver of trepidation crept millimeter by millimeter up her spine. “What?”
Without saying a word, he handed her a sheet of paper the texture of the finest silk. Sorcha read Grams's handwritten letter, and the barometric pressure rose with each word she digested.
“Can it be true?” Sorcha'd never allowed her mind to wrap around her father murdering her mother or trying to kill her. Even in the enforced therapy required before she left the hospital, she'd never articulated the words, refused to discuss it with the shrink.
“I don't know, honey,” Gray replied, his fingers rubbing a slow circle on her hip.
“When I woke up this morning, I had flashes about that night, but nothing I could identify except Miss L's chocolate cheesecake. We had Miss L's cheesecake most Sundays, so I'm not sure if it's actually a memory of that night or not,” she muttered. “When will my memory return?”
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