by Diana Gardin
It’s why I’m with him. If the law and his job are at the top of his priorities list, trying to figure me out won’t be. And I’m all good with that.
Our server brings our dinners. Ken tried to order for me, but I draw the line at that.
“I’ve already looked at the menu online and know exactly what I want to order,” I’d told him sweetly.
He seemed a bit disgruntled, but as I cut a bite of my grilled chicken Caesar salad sans dressing and put it in my mouth, I’m thankful I ordered what I really like. Ken doesn’t know me well enough to have a handle on my likes and dislikes.
After dinner, we climb into his sleek two-door luxury car and speed toward my home in the suburbs near Wrightsville Beach. It was the place where my sister Rayne had fled when she’d left Phoenix in a hurry. But since she’s now happily living with her new husband and their family is complete, I have my house to myself. The way I like it.
Pulling into my driveway, my palms suddenly begin to sweat. Brushing them against my skirt, I jerk my head toward Ken as he shuts off the car and glances over at me. He leans back in his seat, perfectly at ease while inside my emotions are a jumbled mess.
I haven’t had a lot of sexual partners, because, for me, it’s just a part of dating. If I feel attracted enough to someone to take them to bed, I do, and I don’t have any qualms about it. And up until tonight, I thought I had that with Ken. But now, instead of the blond-haired, blue-eyed man sitting across from me, as handsome as he is, I kept picturing another man in the driver’s seat of a different car. Ken reaches across the console for my hand. “Walk you to the door?”
His voice was smooth, knowing. Apparently, he completely understood the five dates rule.
My insides tighten, my stomach clenching for reasons I can’t identify. “Sure.”
We both exit the car and stroll up my neat and tidy front walk. Arriving at my red front door, I stop and turn toward him. Ken leans in, his lips catching mine in a soft caress. I return the kiss, but my heart isn’t in it. Leaning back, I plaster a bright smile.
“God, it’s been an exhausting day. Did I tell you I started a new project at the oceanfront in addition to the Victorian I’m working on downtown? My feet are killing me.” I send him a guilty smile, shifting on my feet. I could wear heels for twenty-four hours straight, but Ken doesn’t need to know that.
Ken grins. “Then let’s get you inside and prop those feet up.” He reaches for the keys dangling from my fingers.
“Actually…” I hedge, causing him to lift his eyes toward mine again. “I think I’m going to call it a night here. But thank you so much for dinner, Ken. It was nice to see you again after being gone so long.”
He schools his expression, not allowing his disappointment to bleed through his perfectly handsome features. “I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow. We have those theater tickets.”
No doubt that event will include dinner at a five-star restaurant.
The thrills.
I nod as I work the key into the door. “Thanks, Ken. Yes, I’ll see you then.” Pushing the front door open, I give him one last smile before slipping inside and closing the door behind me. The comforting darkness of my home greets me as I lean against the door and immediately pull off my black stilettos. I sigh as my back hits the wood and take a moment to mull over the events of the day. Of the week. Of the month, really.
I close my eyes, briefly remembering Clara, the old woman who’d become a mentor to me. I learned so much from her while designing her chateau, and even in her early seventies she was so vigorous and full of life. I had no idea that she was dying, and redesigning her beautiful home was one of the last things she would do. No idea that time spent in her home would be the last time I felt safe.
When my thoughts stray to the e-mail I received just before leaving to go to France, all traces of warmth leave me. I’ve been avoiding thinking about that message ever since I came back to Wilmington. But as I remember, I can feel the color draining from my face.
Inhaling, I open my eyes and reach for the light switch beside the door and flick it on. I blink, zeroing in on the scene in my front hallway, and then I blink again.
My hand flies to my throat where the scream is lodged.
5
Ronin
When my phone rings, a pleasantly surprised smile crosses my face. I’ve just walked in my front door, and I don’t even bother to glance at the name of the incoming caller as I swipe my thumb across the screen.
“Hey, I—”
“Shaw.”
The voice that interrupts me, although familiar, isn’t the one I expect, and I shut my mouth. The pause must make him question whether or not I’m still on the line, because he tries again.
“Ronin?”
Finally, I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Watson?”
My muscles have cramped up, my mind going blank. The blood rushes in my veins, but I still feel sickeningly cold as I absorb the fact that the detective from my wife’s unsolved homicide case is calling me out of the blue.
Hearing from him can mean only one thing. As that revelation sinks in, my breath hitches and the emotions I felt all those years ago when I lost Elle come surging back.
Bitter regret.
Anguish.
Rage. So much rage.
Lance Watson clears his throat. “I’m going to get straight to the point, Ronin. Something new has come up concerning your wife’s case.”
Standing rigid, stock-still, a rash of chills rush up my spine. “What’s come up?”
Watson continues, like he can’t get the words out fast enough. Having been on the force after returning from my final deployment, I remember how it feels to be working on something that suddenly snowballs, the rush of adrenaline that comes from discovering new evidence.
“There’s been another murder. The details of the new homicide match the ones from Elle’s case to a T, Ronin. This might be the break we’ve been waiting for.”
There’s no hesitation. I turn right back around, opening my front door and heading toward the elevator at the end of the hall. The one that will take me down to the parking garage and straight to my truck. “I’m coming in.”
His tone takes on a note of warning. “I’ll show you what we’ve got, because I know you. But you stay out of the way, got it?”
Grinding my teeth together, I remain silent. I’m not making any fucking promises. Not about this. “See you in a few.”
The drive to the police station takes less time than it should. But tonight, red lights and speed limits are not stopping me from getting there fast.
Detective Lance Watson looks up as both of my hands land on top of his desk. Heavy brows furrow above dark brown eyes, and concern is written across his expression. Screwing his face up, he studies me. “Did you run every red light to get here?”
Ignoring him, I glance at the paperwork strewn across his desk. “Tell me about the new case.”
Dropping down into a chair beside him, I watch closely as he pulls a folder toward us. Opening it, he removes several photos and sheets of papers. Sliding them my way, he leans back in his seat and taps a pen against his chin while I study them.
There’s a stack of crime scene photos, and I flip through these first. The murdered woman lies sprawled out on a white tiled floor. She’s flat on her back, her legs bent beneath her, her arms spread out beside her head. Her throat is cut; the amount of blood on her clothes and the floor around her is massive.
My stomach churns as the memories stir.
My mind flashes back to the day my world went dark. My gorgeous wife: long, black hair, heart-shaped face with perfect, full lips. Petite, lush body. All covered in blood, the life leaked completely out of her.
Revulsion rises in my throat, but I swallow it and tamp down my reaction. Glancing up at Watson to find him watching me with sympathy in his eyes, I push the photos aside and pick up the crime report.
Scanning it, I bypass the victim’s name and personal details. That’s
not what I need to know right now. When I find what I’m looking for, I pause and read more closely.
Murder weapon: steak knife from the victim’s own kitchen.
No sign of forced entry, which means the victim let her attacker in.
Partial boot print left near the victim.
There. This is where the similarities go from being coincidental to tying this case to Elle’s. The killer had used the knife to scratch a note on the kitchen table. Four words that once meant the end of my world: dead girls don’t talk.
“Son of a bitch!” Slamming the folder closed, I breathe deeply through my nose several times, attempting to exhale the fury so that I can focus.
“It’s been seven years, but he finally reared his ugly head again, Ronin. We’ll get him.”
No. I’ll get him.
Someone exits an office across the room and calls Watson’s name. A superior, from the looks of him. Watson claps a hand on my shoulder as he walks by. “Be right back.”
As soon as he’s enclosed in the other room, I pull out my cell phone. Opening the case file, I snap a photo of the crime report and each photo. I’m sliding my phone back in my pocket just as the door opens and Watson returns.
Standing, I raise my chin in farewell. “Keep me posted.”
He nods. “Will do, Ronin.”
There’s a determination in my step as I leave the police station and head for my truck that I haven’t felt in a long time.
A brand-new fire burns in my blood: I’m going to be able to avenge my dead wife.
Hope blooms red.
As I settle in the driver’s seat of the truck, my phone rings. The dashboard lights up with the incoming call, and as Olive’s name jumps out at me in blue, lighted letters, I frown. The jumble of emotions is making me feel exhausted. This night has been full of strange highs and lows, and I can’t fully understand the reason behind the high I feel from seeing her name on my caller ID. Especially right now, at this moment.
It feels wrong.
Pressing the hands-free answer button on my steering wheel, I greet her. “Olive? Didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.” My tone is flat. The flirtatious banter I had with Olive earlier feels so long ago.
Like another lifetime.
My head rests back on the seat and I close my eyes.
“Ronin?”
Opening them again, I sit up straighter. Olive’s voice is higher than normal, and there’s a note of panic edging her words. “What’s wrong, Olive?”
Without even thinking about it, I start the truck’s big, growling engine.
“It’s my…my house. Someone’s been here?”
My blood chills for the second time tonight. “What do you mean, ‘someone’s been there’?”
A deep inhale on the other end of the line. “It’s…someone broke in. I just walked in the door, and…there’s stuff everywhere, Ronin. Not my stuff…I don’t know how this happened.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
Christ. “Olive, I’m on my way to you now. Get out of the house.”
Her voice drops to a raspy whisper. “You think…” She pauses, and I can hear her swallow. “They might still be here?”
I put the truck into drive and pull out of the police station parking lot. Trying to keep my voice even so she’ll stay calm is tough. My pulse races, ramping up to match the speed of my driving. “I’m not sure, sweetheart. Just get out.”
“I left my car at the office I rode with Ken. I was going to catch a ride with one of the girls to work in the morning.” Her voice is breathier than I’ve ever heard it, and something in my chest squeezes painfully tight at the sound.
“Is he there with you?” At that moment, I really hope the dude walked her inside. But something tells me he didn’t, or Olive wouldn’t be on the phone with me.
“No.”
Trying to instill urgency in my words without scaring her to death, I speak slowly. “Okay, Olive. Just get outside. If there’s a neighbor you can hang out with until I get there, go there. I’m not far.”
I picture her nodding as she answers. “Okay. I have a neighbor…Macy. I’ll head to her house until you arrive. Um…thanks, Ronin. Should I call the police?”
“Is there any reason you wouldn’t want to?” It’s a question we ask our clients all the time. Our first priority is to protect them, and that can sometimes involve bending the law to work for the client, or for us.
“No.”
Good. That makes this a lot less complicated. “Then call them. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
When she ends the call, I stomp down hard on the gas pedal. The need to get revenge for my wife is still lingering in my mind, but my immediate need is to make sure Olive is safe.
Jeremy asked me to look out for her while he’s gone, but that’s not the whole reason I’m running every red light to get to her. There’s something about Olive that calls out to me whether I want to acknowledge it or not.
Pushing that thought down, I focus my attention on the road in front of me.
6
Ronin
I pull into Olive’s driveway and study the house. It’s dark and quiet, save for the soft porch light glowing beside the red front door. The front yard is immaculate, which shouldn’t surprise me. It looks just like the woman: pristine, cool, and put-together.
Exiting the Ram, I let the door slam behind me.
“Ronin?”
Olive’s voice calls out to me from the darkness, and I swing my gaze around the vicinity, looking for her. She approaches from the house next door. She’s still wearing her clothes from earlier, the shiny red blouse and black pencil skirt, but her hair, usually pulled back, now tumbles down around her shoulders in a cascade of auburn. My chest contracts at the sight of her, but not only because of her obvious beauty. It’s also because of the fear and apprehension apparent on her face.
“Hey.” I greet her when she stops a few feet in front of me, her arms hugging her chest like she’s cold.
I dip my head down so I can get a better look at her. “It’s okay, Olive. Do you want me to go inside and check things out, or do you want to wait for the police?”
I study her face as she considers. “Let’s go inside. It’s my house, Ronin. I can’t stand the fact that it’s been violated.”
An evident shiver rocks her thin frame, and instinctually I wrap my arm around her shoulder. I can’t remember the last time I felt the need to hold a woman close, feel her heart beating against me just so I know she’s safe.
I inhale the sweet scent of her hair. “Stay with me, then.”
She nods and we cross the yard, step onto her front walkway and up onto the porch. Reaching down to a holster on my ankle, I pull out my 9 mm. I open the door and push so it swings silently open. There’s a soft lamp shining on a table in the front hallway, and I suck in a quick breath.
The place is a perfect reflection of its owner, because it’s damn near spotless. Except for the thick carpet of rose petals scattered across the floor. Roses, in every single color, litter every surface. They’re everywhere; some are lying loose on tables or the floor, while petals cover absolutely everything. I can even fucking smell the thick, heavy sent as it settles in the air around us.
It’s not romantic, it’s over-the-top insane. Knowing Olive, seeing this when she walked in her front door must have crushed her. Turning from side to side with the gun out in front, I make my way down the hall. Entering the great room, open to the kitchen, I indicate to Olive that she should turn on the lights. She does, and her gasp echoes through my soul.
She’s horrified to see everything that she owns covered in petals, stems, and thorns. The room is in shambles. Her couch cushions have been covered in pink and white, trinkets and lamps coated with all kinds of floral debris. Whoever did this was clearly out of their mind. This was so far from normal I could hardly wrap my head around it, and it’s not even my house or my stuff. I circle the entire space, noting that none of Olive’s belongings have been messed wi
th. Everything is still in its rightful place, just…embellished. With the goddamned flowers from hell. There isn’t anyplace to hide, so after a wide sweep of the room I nudge Olive behind me and head for the stairs.
Her closeness burns into my back as we climb, sending an awareness blazing through my blood just because she’s close. There’s no sound except for the rapid rush of her breathing. We clear the top of the stairs, and I turn this way and that, brandishing my weapon in case of an intruder attack. But the landing is empty. We comb the rooms one by one. Olive stays in the hallway while I enter a room, sweep it from top to bottom, and declare it empty. Her master bedroom is last.
When she flicks on the light, the first thing I notice isn’t the fact that the place is dripping in flowers. That’s been the case throughout the entire house. The first thing I notice is how cold the room is. There’s no sense of warmth, of belonging, of the love that a woman usually puts into a space. Her room is black and white, clinical with a single pop of red within a painting of a rose hanging over her bed.
Her king-size bed has a white upholstered headboard and a white down comforter.
But this room? It says nothing about the woman Olive is.
I’m quickly seeing that I’m going to have to peel back every layer of her one single piece at a time, because she’s giving nothing away, even in her personal space.
“Oh, God.” Olive’s voice sounds like an echo, tiny and scared.
When I whirl around to face her, I see that she’s crept closer to the bed and the naked look of desolation printed across her face has me eating up the distance between us in two strides and holstering my weapon.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to keep the hard edge out of my voice. But fuck if the fear in her eyes is making me want to hunt down whoever did this shit and make them feel every single ounce of terror they’ve put into her. And I’d enjoy it.
She lifts a finger, her hand shaking, and points toward the bed. I glance over my shoulder and notice the corsage sitting in the middle of her bed. Propped up against a small box and a bow, it reminds me of the flowers guy gave girls before prom.