by Katie May
We move briskly through the station’s halls, only releasing our breaths when we’re outside in the blinding sun. Roman uses his hand to create a makeshift visor.
“I’m parked over there.” He nods towards his Volvo. “I’m going to stop by tonight, okay?”
I nod, burying my face in my green scarf. The sun belies how cold the days have become. Fortunately, the snow has begun to melt leaving sludge in its wake.
“Mal, seriously, it’s going to be okay.” He glances in both directions before taking a step closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll always take care of you, Baby.”
Fuck. Something about a sexy man like Roman calling me baby...it does things to me. Things not appropriate for a “grieving” widow to feel.
Ignoring the way that word makes me feel—the way he makes me feel—I ask, “Did you hear from Byron?”
His face darkens considerably.
“No, not yet.” He pauses, considering his words before he says them. “You don’t think he did it, do you?”
I open my mouth, close it, and then open it once more.
“No,” I decide on at last. “Byron would never.” I know that as surely as I know my name is Mallie, and I was once a hired lover. I know it as surely as I know that Jared was an abusive asshole and is now dead. I can’t tell you how I know, only that I do. The truth settles in my gut, the weight of it surprisingly comforting.
“And Phillip?” Roman asks softly. His eyes once more flicker across my face, devouring my features. Each tick of my lips. The tightening of my eyes. The furrow of my brows. But like with Byron, I know innately that Phillip is not capable of murdering someone.
Well…
He’s not capable of getting caught, I mean. He seems like the type that would do better at hiding the body.
Roman must see the answer on my face before I even speak. He nods slowly, solemnly.
“I wish I had the same faith in people that you do,” he admits after a moment. He raises a hand, and for a moment, I think he’s going to caress my cheek. Maybe brush at my dark hair.
Instead, he drops it with a sigh, backing up towards his car.
“Call me when you get home,” Roman demands. I can see his stiff shoulders—hewn from stone—deflate the farther away he gets from me. Only when he’s in the car, buckled in, does he collapse against the steering wheel, forehead resting on the rubber.
I watch his break in composure, the crack in his apathetic front, until he drives away.
My stomach knots as the car disappears around the bend in the curb.
Everything about Roman is complicated, including my feelings for him. And his feelings for me.
I’m not stupid. The way he acts around me, the way he treats me, surpasses how a professor acts around a student or a lawyer behaves with their client. What is this doing to him? I have never seen him break apart before, not once, and I hate that I’m the cause of it now.
With a sigh, I walk towards my own parked car around the corner of the precinct. Well, Susie’s car. My car, along with the rest of my belongings, is still being investigated by the police.
I just want to sleep for a thousand years and forget the world. Forget the deaths. Forget my past.
A startled scream breaks through my raw throat the second I open the driver’s side door.
Sitting on the leather seat is a bird. A dead bird.
It’s beady black eyes stare sightlessly ahead, and it’s neck is snapped at an unnatural angle.
That isn’t what caused me to scream though. It’s mildly disturbing, I’ll admit, and definitely macabre, but it doesn’t cause cold terror to steal all the warmth from my body.
The entire car is doused in blood. Red, glistening blood. Flowers are tossed haphazardly around—roses, tulips, and my favorite flower, the white daisy.
On the dashboard, a single finger sits surrounded by the blood-painted flowers.
A single finger wearing Jared’s wedding ring.
I’m still screaming when Deluca joins me.
Chapter 12
Deluca plants a comforting hand on my shoulder, pulling me away from the gruesome scene.
“Are you okay?” he asks, pushing me behind him. His hand is on his gun, muscles visibly straining beneath his uniform. When I remain silent, too terrified to speak, he repeats, “Mallie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I manage to stutter out at last.
I think.
Deluca’s face twists with disgust as he surveys the car. The blood. The flowers. The severed finger. Reaching into his pocket, he procures a white handkerchief and wraps it around the finger, making sure not to get his DNA on it.
“Should we go inside and tell them?” I ask, nodding towards the police station.
Deluca ignores me for a moment, focused on the task at hand, before turning to me with an unreadable expression.
“No,” he says at last, tone curt.
I blink at him in surprise.
“No?”
Surely, he wouldn’t want me to keep this a secret from his co-workers? I search his face, looking for any smirk, any sign that he’s joking, but his face is impassive. Not calm, per se, but blank. I’ve gotten so used to the men in my life wearing masks, all I can do is gape up at him like an idiot
“Mallie,” he says suddenly, using his free hand to grab my arm. His touch is light, gentle, but it startles me enough I release an high-pitched yelp. He releases me instantly. “There are some things I can’t say, not yet, but I’m going to help you.” He pauses, face scrunching up with indecision, before he adds, “I don’t think you did it.”
“What?” Out of everything he could’ve said, I hadn’t expected that. I’m unable to formulate a coherent sentence, hoping his words somehow click in the dissonant chaos of my brain.
He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, still holding the severed finger, and types a message one-handed.
“Someone I trust is going to run some tests on the blood and finger. Are you okay with me taking you home?”
All I manage to do is nod. I worry that I’ll never be able to speak again. Pain and fear have ruptured my heart until it feels like I’m suffocating, dying, ever so slowly. What is going on? Does someone hate me so much as to threaten me? Stalk me?
Deluca nods towards a modest car in the parking lot, assuring me it’s unlocked. I can feel his eyes on me as I move mechanically to the passenger side and slide onto the leather seat. This is exactly how I’d picture a bachelor’s car to look. Food wrappers litter the back seats along with a change of clothes and a few taped boxes. I notice an empty box of condom wrappers as well and can’t help but smirk. Apparently, Mr. Fancy Police Officer still has it.
As I stare blankly out into the parking lot, I think about the moments leading up to this. I’d arrived at the precinct and parked my car before meeting Roman at the entrance. We had walked in together, were interviewed, and then sent on our merry way. During that brief hour, someone destroyed my car.
The same person who murdered Jared, I suspect. Are there street cameras? Witnesses? I imagine that someone somewhere must’ve seen something.
I shift uncomfortably in the seat as my next question crawls to the forefront of my mind.
Why me?
I turn the facts over and over again in my mind, but I can’t arrive at a logical conclusion. Obviously, I have a stalker. Is my stalker the same person who murdered Jared? Or are they two separate individuals?
Am I safe?
Are the men I care for safe?
Is Nat safe?
Tears burn my eyes, and I know there’s one person I need to talk to. One person whose wisdom I need more than anything.
Unsurprisingly, Nat picks up on the first ring.
“What the hell, bitch?” she screams as soon as she answers. “What type of evil friend are you? I discover your asshole husband is dead, and then you don’t return my calls? You fucking text me instead? Bitch, you better have a damn good explanation for this. Preferably one that inv
olves a harem and multiple orgasms.”
Her voice is the final push over the edge of the cliff. I can’t hold in the desperate sobs rocking my body forward, nor can I stop the pathetic sounds that leave my lips. I taste salt on my tongue, and I know I’m babbling incoherently. I’m damn well reaching hysterics at this point.
“Nat…” I sob into the phone, and she immediately begins cooing.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says softly, cajoling, like she would a young, forlorn child. Maybe that’s what I’ve been reverted to.
“It’s not,” I cry. “It’s really not.”
“Tell me what’s going on. We can work through this together.” In the background, I can hear the chatter of people and dishes clanking.
“Are you at work?” I whisper, brushing at my face. I fucking hate tears. Hate them. They make me feel weak and vulnerable, as if a layer of my skin had been sliced back to reveal the tender muscles beneath.
“Fuck work,” she says, and I hear the shuffle of footsteps as she moves to a, presumably, quieter spot.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble again.”
Nat works at a diner the next town over, and her boss is a raging douche. Not only does he perv on all the waitresses, but he also has a strict “no phone” policy while on the clock. Nat is already on thin ice with him, having called in sick more times than I can count and for genuinely being a pain in his ass.
But I know there’s no talking my best friend out of this. Instead, I tell her everything.
Jared’s death. The accusations. My new living arrangements. My bloody car.
She listens without interruption, the only indication she’s still on the line is her sharp intake of air. When I finish, she’s silent for a long moment. I can practically hear the wheels spinning in her head.
“Fuck,” she settles on at last, that one word encompassing a whole shit load of emotion. “What do you need from me? A girl's night? A box of chocolate? Alcohol? A guy to have sex with all night long? I can come over there, if you want. I have my shiv for protection. And let me tell you, I will not hesitate to cut a bitch. Just tell me what you need.”
A semi-hysterical laugh bubbles out of me, and I brush at the remaining tears suspended on my cheeks.
“This. This was what I needed.” Just talking to Nat, explaining everything, has lifted a considerable weight off my chest. It feels like I can breathe again.
“I can still come over,” she assures me. “I can leave right now.” And then, to someone in the room with her, she screams, “Fuck off, Larry! I’m on the fucking phone!”
“I’ll let you go, Nat, so you can get back to work.”
“You don’t have to,” she assures me quickly, and then, louder, “LARRY IS JUST A FUCKING ASSHOLE WHO DOESN’T UNDERSTAND PERSONAL SPACE!”
I wince, pulling the phone away from my ear as if I can escape her ire. When I bring it back, she’s apologizing profusely.
“Sorry about that, babe. Larry’s such a fucking asshole. But ignore him. I’ll stay on the phone with you as long as you need. Five minutes? Five hours? Five days? If we need to make a quick getaway, I can do that too. I know a guy who can give us transportation out of the states and a fake ID.”
I shake my head at Nat’s antics, the first real smile of the day touching my lips.
“Love you to pieces, Nat.”
“Love you too, babe,” she replies automatically. Voice quiet, she adds, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Promise.” That’s a lie, but I am doing ten times better than I was five minutes ago. From the rear view mirror, I can see Deluca racing up, his key between his thumb and forefinger. “I have to go. But please, for the love of God, don’t get fired from another job.”
I don’t have to see her to know she’s rolling her eyes.
“No promises,” she says cheerfully. Her tone changes with her next statement, becoming softer. “Be safe, crazy bitch. And let me know if we’re leaving the country. I want time to pack my bikini.”
“Goodbye, Nat,” I say with a small smile.
“I’m a ride or die type of friend,” she assures me. “But I do prefer we don’t die.”
Chapter 13
Deluca climbs into the driver's seat, but he doesn’t immediately start the car. His face is carefully blank, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, as he stares out the windshield. I watch his profile for a prolonged amount of time until the silence becomes too much.
“What the hell is happening?” I whisper, and he spins towards me, face slacken, almost as if he is startled by my voice.
He forks his fingers through his dark hair and releases a sharp, bitter laugh. Angry lines contort the skin around his eyes; as hard and unforgiving as his current tight-lipped expression.
“I think…” He pauses, starting the car and backing out of the parking space. We go in the opposite direction of my car, and I release a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The last thing I want to see is the blood-coated vehicle lathered in ominous warnings and threats. And I have no doubt that was what they were.
Someone wants me to know they’re after me.
“I think you’re being set up,” Deluca decides on at last, and I’m struck by the sincerity in his voice.
He believes me.
This man—this stranger—believes me. It feels like I can finally breathe again, like the vice closing off my airways is all but gone. The last thing I want to do is get all sappy, but tears form in my eyes instinctively. I use the back of my hand to brush them away.
He believes me.
That shouldn’t matter as much as it does, but I feel lighter. The weight of the world suddenly isn’t too much for me to bear.
He pulls onto the street, his gaze flickering from my face to the road and then back again. At this point, I’m legitimately worried we’re going to crash.
“There’s been too many coincidences,” he admits at last, one hand lifting from the wheel to push away the dark strands of hair grazing his eyes. I want to snap at him to keep both hands on the wheel before realizing how hysterical that would make me seem. How unhinged.
“What do you mean?” I query.
“The cameras conveniently being shut down when you enter the school grounds. Your car being vandalized. The cops refusing to look at other suspects.” He sighs heavily, muttering something under his breath about “for sure being fired.”
“Deluca,” I ask, tapping my fingers against the inside of my elbows. The skin is smooth there, soft. I focus on that, only that, and it helps comfort me. “How did he die?”
The question has haunted me. I’ve been kept awake, tossing and turning as horrific image after horrific image assaulted me. They say the truth sets you free, but I think in this case, the truth will merely give me clarity.
I can never be free of Jared and his ghost.
Deluca hesitates a long moment, and I can see indecision flare to life in his eyes. His lips twist ever so slightly. After a moment, he releases a breath and settles back against the seat, hands loosening on the steering wheel.
“He was poisoned,” Deluca says at last, voice a hushed murmur. Despite the confession being whispered, I feel as if he had screamed it. “That was how he actually died. According to the medical examiner, he was beaten. Nothing life threatening. There appears to be an hour timeframe between the beating and the poison. We haven’t verified if it’s the same person for both.”
“And Aurora?” I whisper, turning this newfound information around and around in my head. It continues to spin like a never ending merry-go-round. Each thought is accompanied by a surplus of questions until I’m afraid my brain is going to explode.
Deluca releases another heavy breath. His shoulders are scrunched up to nearly his ears.
“From what it looks like, she came home and found her father. The murderer—poisoner—must’ve still been there. She was hit over the back of the head. We don’t believe she was the intended target. However, I’m beginning
to think that you may have been, if your trashed car is any indication.” His fingers tap faster and faster against the steering wheel, almost as if they’re in tandem to his racing thoughts.
“Fuck,” I say rather eloquently. I can’t seem to think of another word.
Deluca chuckles darkly. “Fuck is right.” He turns suddenly, stopping in front of a rundown diner I used to frequent with Nat before Jared became even more controlling and abusive. “Are you hungry? I would kill for a burger.”
I hesitate, only briefly, before nodding and unbuckling my seatbelt. Deluca waits for me at the front of the car, hands in his pockets and a lazy smile on his face.
At some point—probably before he even left the station and found me at my car—he’d changed out of his uniform. Now, he is dressed in a pair of loose jeans and a white shirt that goes great against his sepia complexion. He really is a handsome man, emitting an aura of confidence and sexuality.
He doesn’t hold my hand or anything like that as we walk inside the restaurant, but he does stand close to me. His arm brushes mine with each step.
The inside is exactly how I remember it with alternating red and white tiles, red vinyl booths, and a dusty jukebox in the corner. The smell of grease and coffee permeates the air, not entirely unpleasant. When Jared was alive, I constantly had to watch what I ate to keep a slim figure.
Now...I don’t have to worry about that. I can do, and eat, whatever I want.
It’s a welcome change.
The sign by the door says “seat yourself,” so Deluca leads us to a tiny booth in the corner of the restaurant. Shortly after we sit down, a red-faced, gray-haired waitress comes hurrying over to us with a notepad and pen.
“Do you need a few minutes, or are you all ready?” she asks, voice thick with a Southern drawl.
“I’ll have a coffee and a burger with fries,” Deluca orders with a charming smile. I swear she preens under his attention, the sixty-year-old woman arching her back as if begging to be scratched.
“I’ll have the same,” I answer, handing her the menu I haven’t even bothered to open.