Scarlett Red: A Billionaire SEAL Story, Part 2 (In the Shadows)

by Michelle, P. T.

  “I didn’t mention it because I was beginning to believe I’d been wrong in my assumption that the serial killer might work here.” Releasing me, he drops his gaze to the folders. “Even though these men fit the basic profile of a single white male who lived in New York in the past, who currently lives alone and is between the ages of twenty-two to thirty-five, none of these employees raised any of the typical red flags I’ve come across in serial murder cases. Since I arrived, a couple of redheads have stayed here with no life-threatening situations happening to them. And, other than someone drugging your drink at an establishment away from Hawthorne where stuff like that can happen, there’ve been no other threats against you. That just left you and me, Talia. I didn’t want anything screwing that up. Not this time around.”

  I furrow my brow. “Then why are you showing me these folders now?”

  “Because I don’t believe in coincidences. The fact that a redhead bought a voucher for a man who ended up killed in a car accident—”

  “Mr. Sheehan died?” I ask as my stomach bottoms out.

  He nods. “Simon’s police contact came through. I had Simon contact him after I learned that Sheehan’s rental car went off a bridge a couple miles from here. Even though there weren’t any tire marks indicating he never hit his brakes, the police had been at a standstill with his case. They couldn’t trace the days leading up to his death back to the resort, since his stay here didn’t show up on his credit card.

  “But with Sheehan’s death and that of your other fan earlier this year, that’s four deaths that tie back to Hawthorne; two supposed accidents and two murders involving redheads.”

  “Don’t forget the unknown redhead who purchased the hotel voucher,” I remind him.

  He nods. “Exactly. Our two cases might not be related, but we can’t ignore how their paths cross. You have an investigative mind, Talia. Maybe a fresh set of eyes will see something I missed in these folders. My skills are more tactical and in-the-moment. While everything is in chaos or perfectly still, I see things others don’t.” He gestures to the paperwork. “After a while, this kind of stuff all blurs together. Would you be willing to look it over while I’m in the shower?”

  Combing through this paperwork will be a welcome distraction to keep me from obsessing about the kinky things he did with Mina’s friend. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can try.”

  Nodding his thanks, Sebastian heads into the bathroom. A few seconds later, he walks out holding the damp pearl necklace, his voice curt. “Why did you wash it?”

  “Sometimes a clean slate is best,” I say, holding his intense stare.

  Understanding dawns in his expression and he curls his fingers around the necklace. “You heard, didn’t you?”

  I shrug and look back down at the paperwork.

  “I’m not the only one still holding my cards close,” he says softly.

  Now’s a good time to tell him about the watch, Talia. Tell him why you kept it and why you gave it back. I lift my head, intending to speak, but he’s already shutting the door to the bathroom. I sigh and whisper, “I’ll tell you when you get out.”

  I flip through each of the beige folders quickly once. The second go round, I put them in order of things that stuck out at me before I settle down to read over each man’s background in more detail. When I fill the hotel sticky notes with at least two questions per suspect, I end up with three employees I want to follow up on. As I stare at my notes, I realize that a sheet of lined paper would be best to help organize my thoughts.

  Standing, I rifle through more surveillance pictures in Sebastian’s briefcase, seeking a legal-sized notepad. When I don’t find what I’m looking for, I move to the folder slot section in the top of the briefcase and pull everything out, expecting to find a pad of paper in the stack. He had to have taken those notes on something similar. Instead of paper, I find two more folders.

  The first one is blue and labeled Jocelyn Quinn. Is this Sebastian’s mother? You can’t read it, Talia. He didn’t give it to you. After I answer the door for room service, curiosity gets the best of me. I open the blue folder, hoping to see a picture and discover if Sebastian favors his mother or his father more. But my heart jumps in my throat and I flop down into the seat, unprepared for the bloody crime scene pictures. I quickly scan through the supporting police notes and paperwork. The investigating police officer suspected a robbery attempt gone bad, but the seventeen-year-old son, Sebastian Quinn, insisted his mother was murdered. Suspects were interviewed but no one was arrested. His mother was murdered? Why?

  I run my fingers over the “cold case” stamp on the back of the folder, my heart aching for Sebastian. What a horrible way to lose his mother. I’d always assumed she died of an illness. I start to set the folder down, then a hunch has me opening the folder back up, and I skim through the police officer’s notes once more.

  Son reports his mother woke him a little after one a.m., telling him to get a phone from her nightstand. An intruder was trying to break in. Once he reached his mother, the intruder had broken the lock on the door and shot at Miss Quinn eight times. The mother fell on her son, her body shielding him from the bullets.

  A little after one a.m.? One-eleven. Sebastian had said he set his watch’s alarm is a reminder to be diligent, aware, and ready.

  Why does he have his mother’s file? Is he investigating her death? It makes sense that he would do so now that he has the skills and the connections to dig deeper than the original investigators.

  I open the beige folder, interested to see Sebastian’s notes on his mother’s cold case so far.

  The last thing I expect to see is a picture of me, taken a little over a year ago, paper clipped to the inside of the folder. My hair is still blonde and I’m holding Nathan’s hand and glancing up at him as we walk into a restaurant for a dinner party.

  Sebastian lied! Why did he pretend not to know my name, when it’s clearly plastered all over the first couple of pages of this surveillance report? Why did he push me to tell him? My stomach knots with panic as I flip past the several photos taken during that same year to the detailed handwritten notes about my life. How far back did the guy go? I can tell it’s not Sebastian’s handwriting. The writing inside the Hawthorne employees’ folders is in bold, crisp print. Maybe it was someone in Sebastian’s security firm?

  Sweat dampens my hands as I scan through the three pages of notes about my life as a college student, the fact that I worked for the school paper, my final grades and College Honors status. Then the notes move on to my rising career at the Tribune. I sit back, relieved to see that the investigator’s notes only go back as far as my last year in college.

  Yes, I planned to tell Sebastian how our paths had crossed when we were teens as soon as he got out of the shower, but that’s it. This folder is the whole reason I never gave him my name three years ago. I didn’t want him to find out the truth. If I tell him about our past now, I can’t help but wonder if he’d let me leave it at that or if he would push to know what happened that night.

  As worry rises up, I take a deep, calming breath. Expelling my breath slowly, I stare at the surveillance notes, baffled as to why the person stopped keeping track of me before I ever left the Tribune. The whole last year-and-a-half of my life: me leaving the Tribune, becoming an author and releasing two books, and my break up with Nathan, none of it is chronicled in this folder at all.

  Not that any of this makes sense. Why would Sebastian let me ream him about not looking for me when he’d clearly had someone watching me, at least for a little while?

  Trying to make sense of him checking into the last few years of my life, I flip through the pictures once more and run across a duplicate of the photo that’s paper-clipped to the folder. Only, it’s a close up shot of me smiling at Nathan as I hold his hand. Why is this one picture blown up?

  Once I reach the back of the folder, I notice a new piece of paper has been added with a one-line note written in Sebastian’s handwriti
ng: Phone tracking activated, Access Code - 542859. The activation date was the day he saved me outside that bar, which was the only time he had unlimited access to my phone.

  As my temper begins to flare, my phone beeps, letting me know I have a text. I glance at my purse on the table by the door. I can’t believe he freaking bugged my phone. Standing, I quickly walk over to pull my phone from my purse while my mind continues to race. But it does all makes sense now. In the back of my mind, I wondered how he found me at Spurred that night, or how he always seemed to know how to find me at the resort. Clamping my jaw tight, I approach the desk and close my folder, laying it on top of his mom’s file.

  Cynthia has sent me a text with a photo attached of a selfie she took of us right before we walked into Spurred.

  Cynthia: Forgot I snapped this. Was taking pics of the gorgeous sunrise this morning and ran across it. You still up for that walk on the beach?

  Me: Yes! Give me three minutes to change. I need to clear my head.

  Cynthia: See you in a few.

  Seven minutes later, I approach Cynthia on the beach while she’s taking pictures of the rising sun reflecting off the ocean. Of course she looks like she just walked off a nautical magazine with her brown boat shoes, cropped white pants cinched by a soft dark brown belt and light navy blue and white striped boat neck shirt. Her chic style definitely makes me feel plain in shorts and a tank top.

  “Capture any good ones?” I slide my hands into my shorts’ pockets and rock on my heels.

  She smiles and tucks her phone away in her purse, then points to the dark clouds off in the distance. “That storm will be here soon. I wanted to get some pics uploaded to my SnapShots account before it blows in. All my friends are drooling over the ones I’ve taken so far. Did you have a good evening?” she asks, raising her brows suggestively as we turn and walk along the hard-packed sand.

  Squinting against the sun, I stare straight ahead. Even though the wind’s starting to pick up already, I’m glad the beach is so quiet this early in the morning. Other than a couple kids playing in the surf, we have the beach to ourselves. “It started off that way.” But I’m not so sure any more. “How about you? Is Dan still your number one man?”

  “He is.” She beams. “I’m going to visit him in Maryland next weekend.”

  “Whoa, so it’s serious, then. That’s good, right?”

  Hiking her purse high on her arm, she slides her hands into her own pockets and shrugs. “I think so. We’ll see. So what’d you do last night?”

  I stare ahead, my attention snagged on the boathouse at the end of the beach with its bright teal-colored door and red walls. The colors definitely draw the eye. Must be newly painted. “I went on a dinner cruise.”

  “I suppose it’s good you had a nice last meal,” she says in a light tone.

  Her comment is so odd, I glance her way. “Last mea—?”

  A cloth is shoved over my nose and mouth, its sickeningly sweet smell muffling my words. I try to jerk back, but Cynthia grabs me around the waist and grates in my ear, “It’s about damn time I finally got you alone. That stupid pilot kept hogging all of your time.”

  I struggle against her hand, my lungs filling with something awful and wrong, but whatever she put on the cloth—chloroform?—is already working. My legs turn numb and her arm cinches tight, holding me up just before everything goes black.

  I take a long shower and spend extra time shaving to give Talia space to look over the documents. I hope to hell that’s what she’s doing and not thinking about what she overheard. Regan showing up was an unexpected complication.

  I know that whatever is going on between us is tenuous. Not because I plan to walk away, but because I’m pretty sure that, at any moment, Talia will. All because the idea of exploring our deepest desires in every way possible scares the hell out of her. That and a past I know she’s still holding back.

  Sex has never scared me. It’s raw, pure, and honest. And a lot better without all the bullshit emotions people drag into the mix. My time with Talia has been the most naturally primal experience I’ve ever had with another woman. I can’t seem to get enough of her. Maybe it’s because I didn’t get her out of my system three years ago, but I’ve thought about her ever since. Near-fucking-obsessed about her, actually.

  And now that I’ve tasted Talia’s sweet body again, I still want her with just as much savage lust. Even now my balls ache while I’m thinking about her. That should scare the shit out of me, but oddly it doesn’t. I know I feel relaxed about this because I’m a twisted bastard. Talia will most likely end us before I get a chance to blow up what we have.

  That’s my specialty, leaving a wake of destroyed relationships and people wherever I go. No amount of money has ever changed that fact about me. Being a SEAL forced discipline on me where it counted for a while, but unfortunately, the military couldn’t save me from myself. I’m even more screwed up than the guy Talia met three years ago. He might’ve had a glimmer of hope for something more with her, but I’m half the person I was back then. Learning to reengage in life, while pretending to be whole has been hard enough since I got back.

  For now, I’ll enjoy what Talia and I have while we have it. I won’t let her pull away from me. I meant what I said; she’s mine to keep for as long as it lasts. Hopefully I won’t fuck it up before I can help her get past whatever that sick bastard, Hayes, did to her. Then at least one of us won’t carry around ghosts for the rest of our lives. Before our time here ends, I’ll get his full name from her. He might be in jail, but I grew up on the streets. Between my current contacts and the not-so-legal ones from my youth, that son-of-a-bitch will pay for what he did to her. I’ll make sure of it.

  Thoughts of Talia draw me out of the bathroom. I tell myself it’s because I want to see if she’s come up with anything useful in the files I gave her. The truth is I don’t want her thinking too long about Regan. The last thing I want is her getting cold feet. We’ve come a long way and I can’t help but hope to build on the trust we’ve created so far.

  My steps slow when I walk into an empty room. Frowning at the blue and beige folders I see on the table, I approach with my chest tightening.

  She found the folder I had on her. Fuck. Picking up her phone she’d left behind, I push the button and immediately see a note she typed out on the display.

  I left my phone for you. It’ll be much easier to track it if it’s in your room.

  It’s bad enough you had me investigated, but then not to tell me when I pointblank asked you if you’d ever tried to find me? I don’t know which pisses me off more: the fact that you invaded my privacy, or that you didn’t do anything with the information you had. Either way, my response is the same.

  Fuck off!

  “Goddamnit!” Closing her note, I curl my hand around the cell phone, shaking with the urge to throw it against the wall. Instead, I set the phone on the desk and walk over to the room phone to dial her number.

  When her phone rings and rings, then goes to the Hawthorne voicemail, I slam the handset down and quickly change into jeans and a T-shirt.

  Grabbing my keycard, I start to head out to track Talia down when her phone buzzes with a text. I pick it up, hoping it might be from her. As soon as I push the button to light up her screen, a text from a friend, Cass, shows up.

  Cass: How’s it going, girl? Haven’t heard from you. Is that smexy pilot keeping you busy?

  I smirk. If she’s been talking about me to her girlfriend, maybe I haven’t royally screwed this up.

  Once her friend’s text disappears and the phone’s background image of a group of people dressed in New Orleans style party garb, smiling and waving around a dinner table, pops up, I set it back down on the stack of folders on my desk. Maybe I should give her some time and it’ll occur to her that I did look for her. She never looked for me. Shouldn’t that count for something?

  Sticky notes poking out of the edge of a few folders draw my attention. I flip the folders open and scan Talia
’s notes. But it’s when I reach the third folder where she has circled several things on the guy’s background that I sit down and read Talia’s comments about the valet Tommy Slawson.

  Spoke to him at the pool and outside the sauna.

  He gave me towels and water bottles each time.

  She’d also circled the New York home address he lived in as a child and written “Lower East Side” next to it. I skim through the background data on Tommy Slawson. No father listed. His mother, Brenna Slawson, died several years ago. No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket.

  Talia had circled that Columbia University had been his prior employer, where he’d worked for the main office and the theatre department. “Good catch,” I murmur, reading on.

  She’d also put a sticky note on the headshot picture I snapped of him laughing at something another Hawthorne employee said. An arrow pointed toward his face and Talia had written “familiar?” beside it. That would make sense if she’d seen him in passing on campus.

  Talia’s phone buzzes again with another text from Cass.

  Cass: You there? I’m jonesing for some Pilot good stuff. Don’t keep me in suspense.

  I pick up the phone, intending to have a little fun with her friend, but as soon as the text disappears, I stare at the background picture.

  Frowning, I send Talia’s background picture to my email, then quickly move over to my laptop to fire up a high-powered facial recognition software.

  As soon as the scan is complete, I clench my fists. “Son-of-a-motherfucker!”

  A stinging sensation burns my face at the same time my head snaps sideways. I gasp and open my eyes to see Cynthia leaning over me, her blonde hair dangling in my face.

  “It’s about time you woke up,” she calls over the wind howling outside the salty-smelling building we’re in. “You know you really should drink more water, Talia. That’s probably why you were out longer than I expected. I want you awake for this.”