An owl hooted in the thick dark, breaking the spell. She remembered who was supposed to be the hunter and who the pursued.
She stepped away, and his hands left her. Immediately, she wanted them back. But she felt around for the blanket, which she’d dropped, and Holt shone the flashlight on the ground until she found it.
He helped her spread out the cover, then took out a lantern from the canvas tote and turned it on. They sat, and the light made ghosts of their bodies against the rocks and cliffs surrounding them. Ahead lay a dark, black abyss.
She pulled her knees into her chest; something inside her chilled. “What is this place?”
“Redbud Quarry,” Holt said.
The chill congealed into horror, but Holt went on.
“Been abandoned for years. But it’s a favorite Redbud secret. Our own lovers lane. In good summers the rain fills the pit and the kids swim here. It’s been too dry the last few years for that, but it’s quiet, and I figured there wouldn’t be much action in the middle of the week.” He reached into the tote. “I’ve got wine, cheese, fruit. Chocolate. Everything a girl could ask—”
She jerked to her feet. Tottered forward.
“Edie?” She heard him scrambling behind her but she kept moving.
“Hey, wait a sec. Hold on.” He grabbed her arm, jolting her to a stop. “The pit’s only a few feet away. You want to fall over the edge? Here”—he shoved the flashlight at her—“take this.”
Her hand closed around the light’s metal barrel and it lit the air in front of her. She gaped into the darkness. Inched to the edge. Looked over. Even with the light she couldn’t see the bottom.
Is this what her father had seen? Had he jumped into the black, not knowing where his journey would end?
But no, he’d done it in the middle of the day. He knew exactly where he was going and how fast he’d get there.
“Edie?” Holt stood next to her. “What’s going on? You all right?”
No, not really. She hadn’t been all right in a long, long time. “Fine. I’m fine.”
“What the—” He turned her away from the edge to face him. His fingers traced her cheek. “You’re crying.”
“I am?”
“Yeah, Edie, you are.”
She swiped at her face. Found it was true. Muttered a swift curse.
“And shivering,” he said.
“It’s cold.” Another lie, but he didn’t correct her. “And I don’t like heights.”
He stared at her. Deep enough to scar her soul. “Okay,” he said at last. “Bad idea. We’ll go.” He turned to leave, and quick as a whip, she clutched his hand.
“Wait.” She took a breath. Running was what her parents did. She was stronger than that. “No. It’s… okay. I’m fine.” Face your fear and it can’t control you. Run, and it chases you the rest of your life. “Let’s stay.”
He hesitated, and she pulled him beside her again. Raised her chin. Faced the abyss. “Wonder what it’s like down there.”
“Hard. Rocky. No fun.”
She pictured it. The white-hot sun searing the cliffs. The leap into space, a liberation. The blistering blue of the sky disappearing into the jagged edges of the pit walls. The end that loomed closer and closer. The welcome relief of the rock, the moment of pain, then… nothing left. Nothing.
Nothing but a fragile wife and a young daughter.
Something touched her, and she jumped.
“Whoa there,” Holt said. He’d put his arm around her again, pulled her close. “Sure you want to stay?”
She turned in the circle of his embrace. Gazed up at him. Stars framed the blackness around his face, and this time she let herself sink into the heat of his gaze. Remembered the music and what it had led to. And, above all, why she was there. “Absolutely sure.”
And to erase all thought and all doubt, she pulled his head down. Merged into the velvet of his mouth. Pain faded against a flush of pleasure. He tightened his hold, deepened the kiss, his tongue caressing hers. And like before, everything disappeared but him. The image of the pit, the broken body, her own broken life, receded. And in its place was Holt, alive and strong, those powerful arms caging her, keeping the past at bay.
“So,” he said softly, his big hands cupping her face, “you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“How much time we got?”
“Long as you want, Edie.” He stroked her lips, and she shuddered. Tried to focus on him, on her mission, but it was all blurry and her heart was pounding and the core of her was needy and wanting.
She ran her hands along the magnificent plane of his chest. Up to his shoulders, wide enough to block out the night. To block out anything. She ground her hips against his, felt the hard length of him through the jeans, and…
She pulled away, breathing as if she’d finished a marathon. “I think… I think we should catch our breath.” She needed to keep her head, and when he was around her head kept exploding.
She led him back to the blanket, and he poured her a glass of wine in a paper cup. She sipped the wine, nibbled cheese, ate a strawberry. And before he could start on her again, she started on him.
“What’s Memphis like?”
“Big. Dark. Exciting.”
“No black angels there, I bet.”
“Plenty of dead, though.”
She thought of his wife, and pushed past his grief. She wasn’t here for comfort. “Think there’s a connection between the deaths and the angels?”
He reached over to cup the back of her head. Stroked the hair away from her face and shoulders. “Both men were over sixty. It could all be a coincidence. Maybe someone was giving black angels away as a promotion.”
She absorbed the jolt of his touch. Craned her neck back to press against his hand. “You really don’t know, do you?”
He ran a finger down her cheek and over her lips. “Know what?”
“Anything. About the black angels.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to know.”
“Maybe.” She took his finger in her mouth. Sucked it in then out. Then in again, her tongue and lips capturing him in a tight, wet embrace. She watched his breathing increase, the desire fill his face. Slowly she let his finger go, and he leaned over to kiss her.
“And like I said,” he whispered, “I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”
She accepted that as easily as she accepted his mouth. It was sweet and tasted like wine. Relief spread, melted into reprieve. He doesn’t know. The thought sang in her head, freed her from all obligation to her mission. She slid into his lap, letting the heat of him fill her. His tongue was thick and lush against her lips, and once again her body swelled with a rush of pleasure so intense it was a new feeling. Every inch of her crackled and spat, pulsed and beat in a hard rhythm. Her breasts tightened against his hard chest, and her hands fisted against his back.
Then, in a swift, heart-jolting movement that pulled her off the ground, he swooped, lifted her, and pressed her against the cliff wall. The pain on her spine felt good. Strong and hard. Like he was. A flip of his thumb, and her jeans were unsnapped, gone, panties, too. He put a hand between her legs, groaned when he felt her creamy and wet. He unzipped his jeans, freed himself, and she saw the thick, proud span of him jutting out from his body. He raised her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist, and with a cry, embedded himself in her.
She shuddered, gripped his neck and shoulders, his length deep inside. Retracting, advancing. The heat and sweat like a blanket of ecstasy that nothing could penetrate. He reached the core of her, the sting of pleasure raw, ragged, a rocket trip to some other plane, some other universe. A galaxy where there was nothing but the thrust of his body against hers, the undulation of desire, the sweet, sweet kick of the coming explosion.
And when she did come, it was like that fall down the pit. A smashing of everything she’d ever felt or needed or wanted. He stopped moving, letting her feel the waves of pleasure pumping against him. His body quivered with tension, h
olding himself back until he couldn’t stand it, and with a single thrust, he came, too, joining her, bucking and groaning, and holding on to her body as if he’d break every bone if only she had any left.
And then, silence. Quiet. Return to earth.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
“Ditto here, lawman.”
He slid down the cliff wall—somehow or other their positions had changed—and held her in his lap. Eyes closed, she drifted away, snuggling against the big shoulders and chest.
And realized, suddenly, and with a huge burst of panic, what she’d done. Lost control. Lost herself. Lost her purpose. And as suddenly, she remembered.
He doesn’t know. Not about her. Not about anything.
And God, he’d felt so good.
His touch sent a shiver through her. “What’s this?” He caressed the spot just over her right breast.
“Ink,” she said without looking. She knew what he was circling. The tiny perfect apple, scarlet and bright, a dark serpent coiled around its heart. “Temptation.”
“Temptation, huh?” He moved from the tattoo to her nipple, softly massaging the tip. A breeze she hadn’t noticed before wafted across her bare legs. She closed her eyes, drifted into the night, the bud between her legs still buzzing with the bloom of him inside her.
They dozed and woke, drank more wine, and by the end of the second bottle, the past had happened to another person, a sad little girl who bore no resemblance to the woozy, loose-limbed woman who lay on a blanket staring up at the endless stars.
She leaned against him, caressing his shoulder with the back of her head. “You know, when I imagined this, I—”
“You imagined this?”
She smiled into the night. “Oh, yeah. But I figured on a bed.”
“A bed, huh?”
“I know where we can get one.”
In half a second they were packed and heading to the car. Minutes later, he was pulling into the alley behind Red’s. They ran up the metal stairs, breathless and laughing. He kissed her at the door, making it impossible to find her key and insert it in the lock. When she finally did, they tumbled into her room, lips locked. He kicked the door closed and they fell into the bed.
He stayed until just before dawn, when he kissed her breasts, then her mouth, and her chin. And her mouth again. “Gotta go,” he whispered. “Want to be home when Miranda wakes up.”
She stretched, then propped her head on one arm to watch the muscles shift in his thighs and ass and ripple across his back as he picked up his clothes and got dressed. It was sad to see him cover up all that splendor.
But she was a big girl. “No problem.”
“When will I see you again?”
“When do you want to see me again?”
“In an hour?”
“Can you make that twenty minutes?”
He sat at the side of the bed, and she slid over so her head was in his lap. He stroked the hair back from her forehead. “My folks always have a party for the All-Star game. It’s Tuesday. Can you get the night off?”
“National League or American?”
“Are you kidding? There is only one league. National.”
“Ah, the loser.”
“The underdog. And be careful with that word around the Drennen house. We’ve been known to arrest people for disparaging our boys.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Will you drive me home afterward?”
“Only if you let me stay a while.” He bent down and kissed her. Sighed. Stood. Let himself out.
The clang of his feet on the stairs faded into silence. She plopped back down, closed her eyes, ran a hand down her naked body. Feeling full and replete, she caressed her mound, swollen with the remnants of sex and desire. She smiled to herself, remembering Holt’s big hands there.
She was in trouble. Real trouble.
And what was worse, she didn’t care.
18
The next few days floated by. Edie tried to put weight on her feet, but nothing seemed to keep her on the ground. No one died, no one blamed her for those who had. And when she saw Holt—mostly at Red’s, and in the alley behind Red’s and the room above Red’s—she couldn’t stop the sunspot that exploded inside her.
Lucy noticed it and didn’t even try to leave it alone. “What’s with you and the chief?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, I can see that nothing all over your face.”
Edie just laughed.
And in the downtime, when she should have been investigating, she put it off. No more deliveries. No more questions. The past was over, wasn’t it? As dead and buried as those final names: the one from her list—plant comptroller Alan Butene—and the one she’d heard from Arlen Mayborne, department secretary Hannah Garvey. It seemed a sign. A note from the universe telling her it was time to take Aunt Penny’s advice and move on.
Then she got a phone call. Seems Hannah Garvey had a daughter, Ellen, and Arlen Mayborne had been talking Edie up to her at church.
“To tell the truth, no one’s expressed interest in Mother since she died.” Ellen Garvey’s voice was elderly but clear. “Of course, she’d been sick for so long, and people do forget an old woman…” She drifted into a sigh. “I haven’t had the chance to entertain often, but I’d be happy to tell you whatever I can. And I make a wonderful chicken salad.”
She seemed so wistful, Edie didn’t have the heart to refuse. They agreed on a time, and for the next few days a distant alarm rang in her head. She got her orders mixed up, and bit Lucy’s head off when she complained. Edie was so restless that Holt wanted to know what was bothering her. What could she tell him? That she had a feeling something awful was about to happen? That their time together was just the lull before the hurricane hit? That some old woman Edie had never met could change everything?
Not likely. So she just shrugged and denied. And stalled.
And at the appointed time, found herself back on the side of town near her grandmother’s, staring up a small hill at the wide, rambling structure that dominated it. On the east and west sides a sharp set of wings jutted out. In one corner, a round turret gave it a fairy tale touch. Edie tried to imagine a fantasy childhood there, with lost princes in the tower and herself to the rescue, cardboard sword in hand. But whimsy was never her thing. Besides, did anyone have that kind of childhood anymore? Maybe it was as much a fantasy as the fantasy of having one.
A long series of steps led up from the street, and a pulse thrummed insistently in Edie’s throat as she climbed up. Did Ellen know anything? Did her mother leave notes behind? A secret diary, a scheduling book, something that would point a finger at someone or something? Edie cursed, not sure she wanted to know.
A bramble of shrubbery formed a wild, improvised arch that created a dark tunnel and obscured the front door. Edie paused. It seemed like the passageway between now and then. Between happy and unhappy. She’d made peace with the past, hadn’t she? What good was the truth now?
She turned around. She’d call Ellen Garvey. Say she was sick or something.
She stopped. Turned back again.
Hell.
She gritted her teeth. Plunged into the cool dimness, then out the other side into sunlight again. Face to face with the house front, she saw sadly that the shutters were falling off, the porch was rotting, and ivy had climbed the walls and cracked the stone in places.
Another old house in need of a loving hand.
Ellen Garvey answered the door so quickly Edie wondered if the other woman had been standing behind it waiting. She looked… old. Could she be seventy? Older? The skin on her elbows and upper arms sagged in the short sleeves of a dark blue dress with a wide sailor’s collar trimmed in white. A lunch at the country club type thing. And so girlish, it looked out of place on Ellen’s shrunken frame. But she’d clearly made an effort to look nice—there was even a small bow in her gray hair.
Despite herself, Edie was glad she hadn’
t disappointed the older woman.
“Come in, come in.” Ellen swept aside to let Edie pass. “Everything is just ready,” she said brightly. “I hope you like tea punch?”
The enthusiasm took Edie aback, more comfortable with an ironic air that allowed everyone to keep their distance. Dutifully, she followed the older woman into a formal room with a long, dark table and large, heavy chairs. Two plates were already set on one end. White china trimmed in gold, linen napkins, and heavy silver utensils. Ellen had gone to a lot of trouble. Did that mean she had something important to reveal? Edie clutched her hand into a tight fist, squeezing out uneasiness.
Ellen, too, seemed unsettled. She flicked a nervous glance at Edie. “I set us up in here. The kitchen is cozier, but I haven’t had much occasion to use the dining room. You don’t mind?”
Although the two of them jammed into one end of the massive table was a little bizarre, Edie found herself wanting to be kind. “Of course not.”
Reassured, Ellen beamed. “I’ll just get the salad.”
While she was gone, Edie noticed a cracked arm on one chair. A chandelier hung over the table, but had neither candles nor bulbs in it. Paint was chipping off the walls.
But Ellen apologized for none of this. She came back with a platter of chicken salad and deviled eggs. A pitcher of tea punch and a plate of tiny, ladylike biscuits that were still warm and so tasty they broke through the sawdust in Edie’s mouth.
Her hostess glowed when Edie complimented her. “Did you enjoy them? I’m so glad.” She sighed happily. “I haven’t entertained in a long, long time. Mother was too ill, you see.”
The first mention of Hannah Garvey sent a buzz through Edie’s chest. “Yes, you mentioned taking care of your mother.”
Ellen sighed wistfully. “She depended on me. She raised me and sister on her own after my father died when I was a baby. Sister left to marry, so all we had was each other.”
No wonder Ellen seemed starved for company. “And your mother worked at Hammerbilt?”
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