Don't Go Home

by Janelle Taylor

“It’s made no more impact than you without a stitch of makeup on, Mia.”

  Mia raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Suddenly, you’re dropping down on the sofa and all tongue-tied. Suddenly, you can’t find words to express yourself when you were spouting this and that just fine yesterday.”

  What could he say to make her understand? They were about to embark on a very dangerous mission, and if he was tongue-tied, it wasn’t because she was wearing red lipstick and showing some leg. It was because his heart had physically moved in his chest at the thought of leaving her for the next few minutes, at the thought of her in danger, at the thought of never seeing her again after tonight.

  But he didn’t have words for all that.

  “Look, Matthew, after tonight, we’re going our separate ways. Let’s just get tonight over with, okay?”

  “Mia—”

  “Just go. It’s nine-forty,” she said and turned away.

  No matter what was in his heart, it didn’t matter. They’d both said too much over the past few weeks; too much had happened.

  He’d lost her before he’d even had a chance to have her.

  At nine-fifty, Matthew pulled open the door to MacDougal’s and was greeted by the blare of a Bon Jovi song and the roar of talking and laughter. The place was packed. Every seat at the bar was taken, and a few people were squeezed in between the stools, waving bills to get the busy bartender’s attention. The dance floor was full of bumpers and grinders, and most of the tables surrounding it were taken.

  My brother’s murderer is in this room, Matthew thought, glancing around. He twisted the fake gold ring on his left hand, wondering if the killer was watching him, noticing that a man with a wedding ring had come into a nightclub alone on a Saturday night. He had no idea if the killer had been in MacDougal’s Wednesday night. If the killer had been there, he or she had been in as good a disguise as Matthew’s and Mia’s.

  I can’t wait to get my hands around your neck, he thought bitterly.

  He headed to the bar and ordered a club soda.

  “Hi!” chirped the woman standing next to him. A petite brunette with freckles and a low-cut tank top, she held up her wrist under his nose. “Do you like this perfume?”

  Oh, Lord. Matthew bent down and sniffed her wrist. “Very nice,” he told her and was rewarded with a beaming smile. “Oh, I see someone I know. Nice to meet you.”

  She shrugged and resumed swaying and stirring her drink, her gaze on the dance floor.

  Matthew headed over to the jukebox and glanced at the door. It was ten o’clock, and Mia was due. The door opened, and a group of men and women came in, followed by Mia.

  She took his breath away. Her blond hair shone in the dimly lit bar and waved softly to her shoulders. Her red lipstick, so sexy, matched her hot red halter top and miniskirt. And those sandals. Goose bumps broke out on Matthew’s neck. Between the miniskirt and the sandals, Mia’s amazing legs were a mile long. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But not more beautiful than the woman she looked like the first time he saw her.

  He watched heads turn as she glanced around and made her way to a table about fifty feet from where he stood. She sat down and perused the cardboard menu of drinks on the table.

  “Wanna dance?” asked a woman standing next to him. “I love this song.”

  Matthew glanced at the attractive tall blonde. “I would, but I have two left feet. Anyway, I’m meeting someone. But thanks.”

  “Well, she’s not here yet,” the blonde countered.

  Jesus. Pushy. “But she will be here soon, and if she comes in and sees me dancing with another woman, I’m in big trouble.”

  The blonde rolled her eyes and turned to another guy and in five seconds was shaking her butt on the dance floor.

  Matthew mentally shook his head and took stock of the place. From where he stood, he could see the entire bar. With Norman Newman’s, Lisa Ann Cole’s, Theresa Healy’s, Ashley Davidson’s, and yes, Laurie Gray’s faces clear in his mind, he searched every inch of the place for the five suspects. Unless they were in disguise themselves, none of them was in MacDougal’s.

  Maybe our killer is simply late, Matthew thought.

  He glanced at Mia. She’d adopted a neutral expression. Good job, he sent telepathically. If you’re nervous or uncomfortable, and I know you’re both, you’d never know it by looking at you.

  He noticed two young men staring at her and whispering between themselves. Probably betting each other on who’d have luck with the hot blonde.

  Matthew was right. One of the men approached her, and was back in position next to his friend in four seconds. The other man laughed, straightened his shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and made his way over to Mia. Matthew shook his head. Mia said something to the man, her expression remaining neutral, and the guy was back with his friend in moments. Both men were scowling. Neither man was wearing a wedding ring, and she’d clearly gotten rid of them quickly.

  Where are you, you bastard? Come out, come out wherever you are. I am so ready for you. So ready to take you down.

  His gaze roaming the bar, Matthew noticed a man staring at Mia. A gold ring shone on the third finger of the man’s left hand. Matthew watched him take a deep breath and run a hand through his hair before making his way in Mia’s direction. I’d better nip this in the bud, Matthew realized, or this guy just might end up the target.

  But someone was blocking his path.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  Damn. It was the petite brunette again. She was looking up at him so earnestly that her freckles almost seemed to be dancing.

  “Uh, sorry, but I was just about to—”

  Her smiled faded. “Yeah, I know. You see someone you know, right?”

  Get the hell out of my way, he wanted to scream at her. Wedding Band was advancing, and Matthew had to beat him to Mia’s table.

  “Actually, yeah,” Matthew told the brunette. “I’m sorry. I really would like to dance. How about later?”

  Her face lit up. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  He smiled, then weaved his way to Mia’s table as fast as he could. But the tall man had beat him to it.

  Dammit!

  “It was a gift, but you can probably find it at Macy’s or Bloomingdales,” Mia was saying to the man.

  Huh?

  “Thanks,” the man replied. “My wife would love that outfit. And I’m useless when it comes to picking out clothes for her, so thanks. I don’t want to mess up our first anniversary by buying her something she’ll hate.”

  Mia smiled, and the man left. Matthew let out the breath he’d been holding.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  Not the brunette again, please, Matthew prayed. He turned around to find an attractive redhead standing in front of him.

  “I love this song,” she said, swaying her hips suggestively.

  “I would,” Matthew said, “but I was just about to—”

  The redhead glanced behind him at Mia, then returned her gaze to Matthew. “Ah, I see. Your loss.” She thrust out her chest and turned to another guy.

  I don’t think so, Matthew thought. Man, was he grateful he’d never have to enter a place like this after tonight. Between the music and the constant come-ons, which felt faker to him than his wig, mustache, and wedding ring, he was about at the end of his rope.

  Why doesn’t the ring deter these women? he wondered. He wished he had the audacity to ask the next woman who asked him to dance. It wasn’t as though he was hiding his hand in his pocket; he held his club soda in his left hand specifically to showcase it every time he took a sip.

  Yet, they still came on to him. What the hell?

  He glanced around again, this time specifically looking for one of the four widows. He knew in his heart that he wouldn’t find Laurie Gray here. So who would he find? Lisa Ann Cole, decked out in her leopard print? Theresa Healy, a murderous glint in her cold eyes? Or Ashley Davidson, distraught and sobbing?

  The th
ought of Ashley Davidson brought the image of his mother to mind. Letitia Gray had also been distraught. She had also been sobbing. And she had picked up a gun, pointed it at her philandering husband, and cocked the trigger. In his mind’s eye, Matthew saw the gun wavering in her hand, saw the tears falling down her lined cheeks, saw the desperation, the inability to take any more. He wondered if the killer was like his mother, a woman who’d lost it, who’d snapped, who’d gone off a cliff in her own head.

  No. His mother hadn’t killed anyone. She hadn’t pulled the trigger. And Matthew would never, ever believe that she would have if the police hadn’t come.

  He wondered sometimes if his father had known that, known that his wife didn’t have it in her to hurt anyone. Robert Gray Senior certainly hadn’t tried to keep her away from Robert and Matthew after “the incident.” Once, Matthew had asked Robert why he thought their dad didn’t press charges or legally demand that their mother not be allowed in their home or to see the boys. Robert had thought that their father knew their mother was too weak to ever hurt anyone, especially her children, who had never caused her any pain.

  Too weak.

  Matthew had countered that their mother was anything but weak, but Robert had reminded him that she hadn’t left their father during years of philandering and ill treatment. She hadn’t left him even after the final incident. What’s your definition of weak, little brother? Robert had wanted to know.

  Norman Newman is my definition of weak, Matthew thought. A man who harassed women when they said no. A man who grabbed women into hotel rooms. A man who didn’t understand that no meant no. That was the definition of weak.

  The definition of strong was sitting just a few feet from Matthew, looking so beautiful, so brave. His heart swelled, and he wanted nothing more than to go to her, take her out of here, away from this, away from danger, away from ugliness.

  Focus, man, he ordered himself. Focus! There’s a killer in this room, and you’re thinking about romance?

  Matthew called himself every name and curse there was, then looked around MacDougal’s for anyone who was looking at Mia. A lot of people were checking her out, men and women. The women with a hint of annoyance, the men with lust.

  Holy—

  Someone was staring at Mia with burning hatred.

  It was Norman Newman.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mia squeezed her lime into the club soda the waitress had just brought her. Her stomach had started churning the moment she’d walked into MacDougal’s and had been turning over nonstop since she sat down. She felt so conspicuous in this getup, so exposed. She’d been aware of the eyes on her when she’d entered the bar and walked to her table. Men looking at her with unbridled lust in their eyes. She was sickened. She would bet anything that not one of those men would be interested in a conversation, what she thought of the crisis in the Middle East, or what she did for a living. They were interested in a score, to show their friends they’d “picked up” a pretty woman. They were interested in sex. A one-night stand. Maybe a few-nights stand. The way they looked at her, what they wanted from her revolted her.

  Focus, Mia. Remember why you’re here. You’re supposed to look like an object. They’re supposed to look at you as though you’re nothing more than that. This is what will lead you and Matthew to the killer.

  The killer.

  The killer was somewhere in the room. Watching her. Waiting. Preparing to pick victim number five.

  Fear gripped her by the throat, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Calm down, Mia. Calm down. Everything is going to be okay. Matthew is here. The killer will be caught. Neither of you will get hurt. Trust in that.

  Mia closed her eyes and willed Matthew to come over and get this over with; then she changed her mind and willed him away so that he wouldn’t put himself in danger. She’d glanced in his direction a few times since she’d sat down, and she’d been shocked, as she had been three days ago, to see him in his disguise. Yet despite the blond wig and the mustache and the horn-rimmed glasses, he was Matthew. Her Matthew. The man she loved. She would know him, know those dark blue eyes, anywhere.

  The disguise did nothing to lessen how attractive he was. Each time she’d spotted him, he’d been talking to a different woman. Given the circumstances of why they were here, Mia had no doubt that the women had initiated the conversation, but Mia was still bothered by seeing him with other women.

  Get used to it, she told herself. He’s not yours.

  Correction: she wouldn’t have to get used to it because after tonight, she’d never see Matthew Gray again.

  A gray blob of sorrow formed in her heart, and tears stung the backs of her eyes. What the hell was wrong with her? She was in the middle of a very dangerous sting operation, and she was crying over a man she couldn’t have? A man who didn’t want her?

  Actually, he did want her. Only sexually.

  Sex. That was certainly the name of the game in MacDougal’s tonight. Men and women were bumping and grinding on the dance floor as though they were having sex with clothes on; women with very little clothes on were shimmying their stuff as though they were on display for the men standing around watching. All around her, people laughed and talked and drank. She supposed they must be having a good time, but as she watched people individually, she got a very different impression. She watched a young man stick his fingers in a woman’s drink, pick up an ice cube, and slip it down the front of the woman’s shirt, much to her glee. She hooted and pretend punched him; then they started making out. But how much fun could it have been to feel an ice cube down your blouse? How much fun could it be to be with a man immature enough to do that? These weren’t teenagers in MacDougal’s; the drinking age was twenty-one, and a good many of the people in MacDougal’s looked to be in their thirties and forties.

  Maybe you’re being too judgmental, she thought. Miss Self-Righteous strikes again. Her ex-husband had constantly thrown that line in her face whenever she told him she wanted to go home from whatever social event he’d taken her to.

  She watched another woman at the next table run her hands up and down her date’s thigh until the man grabbed her hand, placed it on his crotch and vigorously rubbed up and down. The woman looked mortified and tried to wriggle her hand away, but the man wouldn’t let go. He was staring into her eyes like an animal and rubbing. Mia saw panic in the woman’s eyes, then acquiescence. The woman began kissing the man’s neck and rubbing on her own. Now that she was doing what he wanted on her own, he slipped his hand up under her shirt and groped her breast. Mia glanced around, wondering if anyone else had noticed. But everyone else seemed wrapped up in their own dates.

  Mind your own business, Miss Priss, David used to say. Stop worrying what other people are doing and start doing something yourself. Then he’d yank her close and press himself against her, shoving his tongue in her mouth. Humiliated, Mia would run out of wherever they were, a party, the bar of a restaurant as they waited for a table, the park. After enough of that kind of humiliation, Mia had refused to attend events with David. At first he was angry, but then he was only too glad to go out alone. She learned why when he began coming home with lipstick stains on his neck, phone numbers in his pocket, and once, a condom wrapper inside his underwear.

  It was then that she’d told David she wanted a divorce.

  Stop thinking about David Anderson, she ordered herself. Stop thinking about anything but the matter at hand. Getting through this sting operation and catching the killer.

  All right, Matthew. It’s ten-twenty. Time for you to come over so that no one else does. Time for this terrible night to end.

  Where was he? she wondered, glancing around for him. He’d been over by the jukebox, and then she saw him heading in her direction, only to be waylaid by an attractive redhead. He’d been standing relatively close by the last time she looked, but now he was nowhere to be found.

  Perhaps he went to the bar to get another drink and take a look around at the front of the place, Mia tho
ught. She was sure that was it.

  She craned her neck to see around a tall man, but it wasn’t Matthew she saw.

  Someone else she knew was coming toward her.

  It was Norman Newman!

  “Mia!” Norman exclaimed. “So clumsy. Allow me to clean that up for you. I always carry some tissues in my pocket.”

  She stared at the club soda she’d spilled all over the table. Her heart had started booming in her chest the moment she laid eyes on Norman, and she’d jumped in her chair with such force that she’d knocked over her drink.

  Norman reached into his pocket, and Mia felt the blood drain from her face and saw a flash of black and then little white dots behind her eyes.

  Don’t black out, dammit, she told herself. Don’t faint with Norman Newman as your rescuer!

  He pulled out a pack of pocket tissues, and she let out a whoosh of air. She felt warmth return to her cheeks.

  Breathe, Mia. Just breathe. It’s a pack of Kleenex, not a gun.

  While Norman mopped up the mess, Mia frantically searched MacDougal’s with her eyes for Matthew, but she didn’t see him anywhere.

  Where the hell are you?

  Oh, God. Had Norman somehow recognized Matthew’s disguise and gotten to him?

  No, she told herself. That isn’t possible. Stop letting your mind go places it doesn’t have to go. Shouldn’t go. Matthew is unrecognizable.

  But why wasn’t he anywhere in MacDougal’s? Why wasn’t he standing nearby, listening and watching? Where was he?

  Norman threw the wad of wet napkins under the table and sat down. She wasn’t about to comment on his manners or behavior.

  “I’ve been hoping to run into you again,” he said, straightening his tie.

  Suddenly, the wide navy-and-cream tie looked less like a tie and more like an instrument of strangulation.

  She wondered if that would be his weapon of choice tonight, if that was what he had in mind for his victim.

  Oh, God. Norman Newman was a cold-blooded killer. The creepy little man who’d been teaching at Baywater Middle School, running the physics and chemistry lab, monitoring the chemistry club and directing the school science fair, was a cold-blooded killer.