Losing Leah Holloway (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 2)

by Lisa Regan

  Claire shrugged. “I don’t know. Early twenties, maybe. But everyone in there was asking about the Holloway crash. It was on the news while we were there.”

  “I already checked with Sammy’s staff,” Connor said. “He paid cash. Matt is trying to pull a still of his face to release to the media. When he’s done, he’ll check with the neighboring businesses, see if they’ve got any exterior footage of what happened.”

  The sliding doors whooshed open and Claire’s older brother Tom appeared. His face was pinched with anxiety. “Claire!”

  He rushed toward her, nearly bowling her over with his hug. He released her but kept one arm around her shoulder. Nodding at Connor and Stryker in greeting, he said, “Where is she? What did they say?”

  “They’re taking a CT of her head now.”

  “Oh God,” Tom said.

  He seemed far more panicked than Claire, and she was the one who had experienced the frantic, desperate moments of searching for her sister without success and then finding her slack body in a dumpster. Today’s trauma was so much worse than the Holloway crash. She felt like someone had stuffed her whole body in a washer and put it on spin for an entire day. Somehow, her brother looked worse than she did, his open face flushed and rent with pain, like someone was stabbing him with a thousand tiny needles. Fingers dug into her shoulder.

  “Tom,” she said, hoping to get him to focus. “Did you get in touch with Mom and Dad?”

  He pulled out his cell phone and looked at its sleeping screen. “Wherever they are, they’re not getting cell service. I called the cruise line. They’re going to track them down. I’m expecting a call any second.”

  “Mitch?”

  “Headed to the airport to get on the next flight.”

  A doctor in dark-blue scrubs and a white coat emerged from a nearby set of closed doors, a grim smile on his face. He looked from Claire to Tom and back again. “You’re here for Brianna Fletcher?”

  Tom said, “Yes, she’s our sister. How is she?”

  “The bad news is that she has a subdural hematoma, which is a collection of blood that builds up between the skull and the dura, which is the coating of the brain. This is usually a result of a trauma. It looks like she hit the back of her head pretty hard. Her injury is consistent with a fall of some sort. Subdural hematomas can cause pressure on the brain. The good news is that hers is relatively small, and as of right now, she doesn’t appear to have the kind of pressure on her brain that would require us to operate on her. She is comatose, but that’s not unusual with this type of injury. We’ve got her on steroids to reduce any inflammation in the brain and medication to prevent seizures.”

  Claire’s knees had weakened. She must’ve wobbled, because she felt Tom tighten his grip on her shoulder. “What happens now?”

  “We wait. They’ll move her to the ICU. You can both stay with her. We’ll take more imaging in a few hours to make sure it’s not getting worse, keep her medicated, and hope she wakes up soon. If the pressure on her brain becomes critical, then we will try to relieve it by drilling burr holes—”

  “Stop,” Claire said. “Please. Just … I can’t …” Her breath wouldn’t come.

  Connor was on the other side of her. He and Tom lowered her into a chair. Connor’s hand was warm in hers, his breath on her cheek. “It’s okay,” he said. “Breathe. She’s alive. That’s what matters. Breathe.”

  The doctor stood over them, looking uncertain and regretful. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s okay,” Tom said. “We’re both still in shock. Thank you, Doctor. You’ll let us know once she’s moved to the ICU?”

  “Of course.”

  Claire sucked in several deep breaths until the wave of dizziness that had assailed her passed. She was suddenly aware of Tom, Connor, and Stryker all staring at her. She attempted a weak smile. “I’m okay,” she assured them. “I just need to sit here for a minute.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Once the color had returned to Claire’s face, Stryker pulled Connor away, his voice lowered. “Look, I hate to say this, but I need bodies on this Strangler case. You or O’Handley. With Jade gone, we’re short. You know I’m not asking you to abandon Claire, but you already know everything about the Holloway case. Leave O’Handley on Brianna’s case and help me with the Strangler stuff. But I want O’Handley on her case. No one else.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Connor asked.

  “That there is an off chance the twenty-year-old hot guy from the bagel shop is the Strangler? Yeah. I don’t know what he would be doing coming after Brianna, but we have to cover every base.”

  “The news footage of Brianna has been running since Saturday,” Connor said. “Claire said it was on in the bagel shop. He kept asking why Leah was left in the vehicle.”

  Stryker frowned. “Yeah, I saw that footage. Noel made it sound like Brianna left her there to die.”

  “Yeah, and this guy is obsessed with Leah. So if he thinks Brianna let her die out there, he’s probably pretty pissed. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he was at Sammy’s today. It would have been easy enough to track Brianna down, follow her there.”

  “But why approach her in public? If he wanted to kill her, why not attack her at home?”

  “I don’t know,” Connor said, feeling tired. “Maybe he was following her to see if he could catch her alone at some point. Maybe he just wanted to ask his questions. Who the hell knows?”

  “We gotta get this guy, Parks. Now. O’Handley is familiar enough with both cases to handle Brianna’s case. I’ll brief him on what we just discussed. Either way, I want the guy from the bagel shop rounded up. We need to get a bead on this landscaper. Also, we need to see if the GPS from Holloway’s SUV is available.”

  Connor looked toward the waiting room where Claire sat in deep conversation with her brother. He felt a pain in his chest. He didn’t want to leave her, but Stryker was right. He had a job to do, and right now it was more important than ever. He knew Claire would understand, but that didn’t make it any easier to leave her.

  She glanced over at him and did a double take. She spoke softly to Tom and then weaved her way over to Connor. She was the only person in the room. She stopped inches from him, eyes fixed on his, her face lined with tension and grief. “You have to go,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  He nodded.

  She reached up and laid a palm on his bearded cheek. Her touch was soothing and electrifying all at once. She smiled. “Go,” she said. “Catch some bad guys. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The words seemed to have a double meaning. She wasn’t physically leaving the hospital, but she also wasn’t leaving him again—he hoped. There would be time to discuss all that later. For now, he needed her to be safe while he went to work, especially if the man Claire and Brianna had spoken with in the bagel shop was really the Strangler. The thought of her having been that close to such a monster turned his blood to ice. He had to get this guy.

  He cupped her face in his hands, studying her eyes, her skin, her cheekbones. When this was over, he would go to her house, close the door behind him, and not leave for a week. Or maybe they’d take a trip somewhere. Tiki huts on a beach. Sunshine, blue water, beer, and this woman.

  She smiled again, leaned into his right palm. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m just worried about Brianna.”

  “I know. Me too. Stay with Tom, okay? Don’t go anywhere alone. You and Wilson can come stay with me tonight. I need to know you’re safe. I’ll feel better if you stay with me for a few days. Call me later, and I’ll take you home to pick up Wilson. Just please don’t go anywhere alone for now.”

  She backed away from him, pulling his hands from her face and holding them at waist level. “I’ll call you,” she said.

  “Text me if Brianna’s condition changes.”

  “Of course.”

  She let go of his hands and turned to walk off. Images of Jade and Brianna—their lifeless bodies—assailed h
im, mingled with images of the incredible night he had just spent with Claire. Then he saw Claire’s face on Jade’s body, her beautiful smile a rictus of fear. Her body sprawled in a dumpster.

  “Claire,” he called, involuntarily, hating the tinge of desperation in his voice.

  She walked back to him, rocked up onto the balls of her feet, and flung her arms around his neck. He caught her, gathering her to him, and buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. He held on as long as she would let him. He kissed her softly on the mouth as they parted, and she said, “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  TWENTY MONTHS EARLIER

  “You’ve got great tits.”

  That was the first thing D.J. said to her.

  Leah had followed the white vinyl privacy fence to its gate and knocked on it. She had to pound on the gate hard for several minutes to get anyone’s attention. She didn’t even know how they could possibly hear her banging over the music that was blaring. It was some kind of heavy metal/alternative blend. All Leah knew was that it sounded like unpleasant noise. The lyrics contained more F words than she’d ever heard in such a short span of time in her life. There was no way she was getting Hunter down for a nap with the music blasting like that.

  The gate swung open. There he was, like he’d just stepped out of a Calvin Klein men’s underwear ad. He was shirtless, his taut young skin tanned, the muscles of his chest, shoulders, and arms like they’d been chiseled from stone.

  So that’s what a six-pack looks like.

  A thin column of brown hair went from his navel to his crotch, which was almost visible between the flaps of his unzipped jeans. He had thick, wavy brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He was so physically perfect he didn’t even seem human. She tried to focus, to remember the tirade she’d been practicing on her way over. Something about decibels and city ordinances and putting her toddler down for a nap. But when she opened her mouth, all that came out was “You can’t play your music that loud.”

  He stared at her for a moment, his smug little smile bothering her even more than the way he looked. He leaned against the fence, as if waiting for her to say more, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She hated herself for being so disarmed by this boy. Certainly, he was still a boy. He couldn’t be older than nineteen or twenty.

  Then he said, “You’ve got great tits.”

  Heat stung her face. She tried folding her arms over her chest, but that only jostled her breasts more in the V-neck shirt she wore. Anger and embarrassment hardened her tone. “What do you think you’re—”

  “I’ve seen you around,” he said, cutting her off. “Leah, right?”

  She clamped her mouth shut, not sure whether to agree or continue on with her indignant, how-dare-you speech.

  He eyed her cleavage, shook his head, and licked his lips. “Great tits,” he repeated.

  Beads of sweat popped out along her hairline. She’d had pap smears that didn’t make her as uncomfortable as she felt standing in front of this kid. She narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips, trying for what Peyton called her “scary mommy pose.” With it, she tried her scary mommy voice. She refused to acknowledge his dirty remarks. “You have to turn that music down. It’s far too loud. I have a toddler who needs a nap.”

  It was the best she could do.

  And he ignored her.

  “D.J.,” he said, extending his hand.

  She didn’t take it. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of making nice. “I don’t care who you are,” she snapped, thankful to sound like her old self. “I just want you to turn your music down.”

  His smile didn’t waver. “We’re having drinks by the pool, Leah, if you’d like to join us.”

  He moved out of her sight line to reveal a stick-thin girl, lying on a chaise, naked from the waist up, her flat little breasts facing the sun, her areolas like two sunny-side-up eggs. She wore sunglasses, and in one hand she held a lit cigarette. On the ground next to her chair was an open beer. The sight of the girl did nothing to help Leah keep her cool.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she said. “No, I will not join you. I’m only here to tell you to turn down your music. If you don’t, I’m calling the police.”

  His constant stare was unnerving. His smirk was almost a leer. “Leah,” he said, like they were old friends. “Chill. If it means that much to you, I’ll turn it down.”

  He turned back toward the girl. Snapping his fingers, he said sharply, “Yo, turn that shit down.”

  The girl’s head swiveled side to side. “What?” she called.

  “I said turn that shit down. It’s too fucking loud.”

  The girl took a drag of her cigarette, ash falling on her bare stomach. “Shit,” she muttered, wiping it off. She stood, stumbling, the chair scraping along the concrete as her calves bumped it. She walked unsteadily out of sight. After a moment, the music became dramatically lower.

  D.J. turned back to her, his smile still in place. “That better?”

  His voice was sweet as honey and soft as velvet. He made her skin crawl in a not-altogether-unpleasant way, which only freshly enraged her. She tried to choke out a thank-you. After all, he had done exactly what she’d asked him to do. She hadn’t even needed to go full bitch on him. She had told him to turn the music down, and he had—or his drunk, half-naked waif of a girlfriend had.

  Why couldn’t she manage a thank-you?

  She cleared her throat. She tried to hold his gaze but found she couldn’t. She looked down, her eyes catching the “tits” he’d just been admiring. She was easily a DD cup. Leah had never been a small woman. Even at her thinnest, she’d still had large breasts and an ample behind. She had never been—could never be—petite. There was just more to her than most women. Still, many men liked large breasts on a woman.

  “Thank you,” she finally mumbled, hating herself even more.

  Before D.J. could speak, she turned and left. She could feel his eyes on her ass as she hurried back to her home. She forced herself not to go any faster, and again, her cheeks glowed with heat. She felt strangely violated, like she had just been coerced into doing something that she really didn’t want to do. Like in high school when her brother’s friend had talked her into giving him a blow job. She shuddered, pushing that memory back into its compartment: Shitty Childhood.

  Why had this boy made her so ill at ease?

  She heard Hunter’s screams before she even reached her front door. Inside the house, Peyton had dutifully gone to her bedroom for her designated “rest” time, but Hunter wailed, red-faced, in Jim’s arms.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Jim said, hollering to be heard over their son.

  Leah surveyed the living room, which looked as though it had been ransacked in her absence. “I asked you to clean up,” she said.

  Jim struggled to hold on to Hunter, who squirmed toward Leah, his face pinched. “He doesn’t listen to me,” Jim said. He thrust Hunter toward her. “Besides, he’s hungry. He keeps going into the kitchen trying to get those Gerber meal things.”

  She took her son, who stopped squirming for her but not crying. “Well, why didn’t you feed him?”

  Jim waved a hand in the air. “I don’t know how to make those things.”

  Anger rose from Leah’s gut, burning right up through her chest. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. “You read the damn instructions on the box, Jim! It’s not that hard.”

  She left him standing in the middle of the living room, knowing if he said one more word she was going to slap him. She heated a Gerber meal for Hunter and fed it to him in the kitchen. Then she took him to his room, slamming the door behind them so Jim would know she was still angry. It wasn’t until Hunter had dozed in her lap while rocking in the rocking chair that Leah realized her thoughts kept drifting back to D.J.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  TUESDAY

  “This is ridiculous,” Claire said into the phone. “I can get Wilson and meet you at your h
ouse. You don’t need to babysit me.”

  She paced Brianna’s darkened hospital room, back and forth from the window, where the city slept amid thousands of twinkling streetlights, to her sister’s bed, where Brianna lay motionless, hooked up to what seemed like twenty different things. A monitor to measure her heart rate, respiration, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure, with each one reported in a different color on a screen affixed to the wall over Brianna’s bed. An IV that slowly dripped medication into her veins. Pallor made the light freckles on her cheeks stand out in stark contrast. She hadn’t moved all day—or all night. Even with the steady flow of nurses and doctors coming in to poke and prod her at least twice each hour, she remained completely unresponsive.

  “It’s guarding,” Connor answered. “Not babysitting.”

  “That’s a dubious distinction,” Claire told him, but the truth was that she couldn’t wait to see him again. She didn’t want to leave Brianna’s side, but she longed for Connor. His presence alone would calm her frantic thoughts.

  “Besides,” he said. “You left your Jeep at Sammy’s. I’ve got to come get you.”

  She pushed a knot of curls off her forehead and sighed. “I forgot.”

  “You have to rest or you’ll be no good to Brianna. You said Tom is coming back. When he gets there, I’ll come for you. We’ll go get your car, you can follow me home, and you and Wilson can come home with me. Take a shower, eat something, get some sleep. Then you can go back to the hospital around midmorning.”

  She almost argued with him. The clock above Brianna’s bed read 2:45 a.m., and he was still working, which meant that they were in some critical stage of the Soccer Mom Strangler investigation. He likely didn’t have time to babysit—or guard—her, but the truth was that she really did need some sleep and Connor did too. Even more than that, she didn’t want to be alone, even with Wilson. In the last seventy-two hours, she had watched a woman kill herself, Connor’s colleague had been murdered by a serial killer, and her sister had been found unconscious in a dumpster. Claire felt punch-drunk and delirious from it all. A few stolen hours with Connor would sober her and soothe her anxiety. She didn’t have to be alone anymore. That was the beauty of being free. She said, “That sounds good.”