To be fair, she’d been working with him for a while, but it had been more on an as-time-allows basis because, they were short staffed even in the best of times and they couldn’t take one of the uniforms off the streets so he could play at being a detective, as a former asshole—now dead—had liked to complain. Of course, Sims had a reason to worry about real cops. He hadn’t liked her and she knew a lot of that was because she was a good cop. He’d written her off because she was female, sexist son of a bitch.
Thorpe would have been harder for Sims to handle.
Rubbing the back of her neck, Jenson studied their dead man.
“Well, what do you think?”
Benjamin took the question seriously. He was wearing a suit, bless his heart. She barely managed to get out of bed and stumble into a nice pair of pants and a not-too-wrinkled shirt and jacket—granted, Dean had been busy fucking her brains out half the night, so she could write it off to that, but she never bothered to put herself together as well as Thorpe did.
She wondered how long it would last.
His blue eyes squinted as he continued to study Troyer, and then Thorpe looked at her.
“No signs of struggle. No bruising.” He pointed to the floor where there was just a minimal amount of blood. “He died here and I imagine we’ll find out the knife went straight in, killed him almost instantly. If he had been awake and aware of what was going on, wouldn’t he have struggled some?”
She smiled at Thorpe. “Not bad.” Nodding at the liquor on the table, she said, “We’re already having that analyzed. We’ll get his bloodwork, too, see what happens there. But whoever did this knew him. Of course, this is Madison. Harlan knew plenty of people. But Harlan knew this man, was friendly with him. I say our killer came in here planning to kill him. Especially considering that note.” She grimaced and added, “We’ll have to reach out to the state for help and we need to check the paper, but I bet the note came from here.”
She looked over and took a second to study the paper. Heavyweight and a soft, pale cream. Not something you’d find up at the Walmart. She pulled open a drawer on the desk, then another and another, and wasn’t surprised when she found a supply of paper that was identical to the paper used for the note.
Jensen took a moment and read it again.
It sent a shiver down her spine, and she was small enough to admit, some part of her was almost viciously happy with what she read. She wouldn’t admit it, though. Well, maybe to Dean.
Harlan was just the beginning. Cronus must die.
“And he’s not done,” she murmured.
Then she looked down at the picture that had been left on the table.
Like the man wanted them to know why.
Like he had to make them understand.
I’m not just a killer. I have to do this, he seemed to be telling her.
She picked up the picture, the bile rising in her throat.
It was old, one of those Polaroid type of pictures. The edges of it were burned. She eyed the fireplace, bits and pieces of paper, even a few photos, still partially visible.
Had her man pulled it out of the fire?
There was no way to identify anybody in the photo, but she didn’t have to know them to be disturbed.
There was a bench. An older man—she had a bad, bad feeling it was Harlan, although she didn’t know if she’d ever known for sure. The image was cut off so all she could see of him was the shoulders down. There was a scar bisecting his left biceps.
His flesh was male and toned.
And he was raping a teenage male, a skinny young man tied up and bound to a bench. Scars, both old and new, marred his narrow back. He was faceless, nameless, head turned away from the camera.
Whoever that man in the picture was … yeah. Her personal thoughts were that death just wasn’t good enough. But her personal opinion couldn’t come into play here.
“Think it’s Troyer?”
She looked at Ben as she slid the picture into an evidence bag. “I don’t know. If he has a scar like that, we’ll know after the ME looks him over. If it’s not, we need to figure out who it is, because he’ll be one of the next victims.”
Her stomach twisted even thinking it. She didn’t want to help save a man who’d rape a child.
She wanted to kill him herself.
* * *
She dreamed.
Arms closed her around and she wasn’t afraid.
You came back.
The voice wasn’t familiar, low, rasping in her ear, and the sound of it made something low in her belly go all tight and fluttery.
As a hand opened low on her hip, she tried to turn, but he nipped her shoulder.
Be still.
I want to look at you, she argued.
No … I’ve waited, too long. I get to do what I want now.
What he wants. The promise of that made her shiver. Made her want to whimper with want and need.
Squeezing her knees together, she tried not to moan as he nudged his cock against her ass and started to rock against her, the rhythm unmistakable. Warmth rushed through her, preparing her.
He slid his hand between her thighs and she gasped, arching.
Take a breath, he said. You’ll need it.
She almost laughed. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even think—
Then he flipped her onto her belly and her face was shoved into a pillow. A hand tangled in her hair, held her pinned there.
You think you can come back now? His voice was an ugly, hateful snarl. How many lives will you ruin this time?
She struggled against his fist, tried to claw against his hands. Please. I only wanted—
But she couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t even breathe …
* * *
Lana came awake, choking the scream back by shoving a fist against her mouth. She’d learned, long ago, how to hide the sounds of her nightmares. It had been ages since she’d shared her bed with anybody—not since Deatrick, years ago. But even if she woke screaming, people talked and word got back to him and he started worrying.
Before him, it had been problematic in other ways.
Eventually, she’d learned to hide it for other reasons. It was just easier. Better this way.
But as the screams died inside her throat, tears leaking from her eyes while the nightmare faded, she lay shivering on the bed, feeling more alone than she’d felt in her entire life.
She was home.
Just as she’d wanted for so long.
But nothing was the way she’d hoped it would be. She’d come back under a lie. And nothing was any different than it had been a year ago. Six months ago. Rolling onto her side, she curled her knees up and hugged them to her chest, waiting for the ache to fade, the raggedness of her breaths, the erratic beat of her heart.
As it faded, she grew aware of the serene, blissful silence.
It was another brutal blow that Lana hadn’t been prepared for. For years, her life had consisted of routine, routine and more routine. She’d wake to the sound of the L, the rush and clattering of the trains on the elevated railroad that cut through Chicago. She’d smell the familiar scents of the bakery across the street, fried food lingering from the store she managed and other scents she associated with the city. She’d wake in the dark, because she woke up early.
She knew her routine.
But her routine was broken and she felt broken along with it.
The scent of coffee filled the air. Golden streamers of sunlight slanted through the window to fall across her face, and as she lay there she could hear the music of birdsong. She hadn’t heard anything like that in far too long. It almost hurt to think about it. It almost felt like a dream.
She let the simple pleasure of it chase away the ache of the nightmare, staring at the golden light shining through the tree branches. She caught her breath, almost afraid to move for fear that the dream would shatter.
When nothing changed, she dared to let the oxygen trapped inside her lungs out an
d then she let herself think. That, though, was a mistake. Everything caught up with her at once and the few hours of sleep she’d allowed herself, the confusing night, the fear, the worries of what was going to happen and just being here, it all hit, and it hit hard.
That hollow space inside her where she shoved dreams and nightmares and fears and misery just … exploded and all of it came rushing back at her. As everything slammed into her, a sob rose up to choke her. She shoved a fist against her mouth to muffle the sound, still staring mesmerized at the sunlight streaming through the trees.
Home—
Home—
Her father, in a nursing home because of the stroke.
How many times had she ached to be here, just one more time, to be in that house, hear his big, booming voice and sit at the table with him while they had dinner? To walk along that river? To hike through the park or stroll down Main Street? Home.
Now, as the ache threatened to rip her in two, she knew she had just what she’d wanted, that one last time—she was home. She could see her dad, if she could figure out a way.
Noah … another sucker punch. He had moved on with his life, but how many times had she wished she could just see him, tell him she was sorry?
David. Where was he?
Adam … She flinched, thinking of the anger in his eyes.
How many lives will you ruin this time?
That voice rose out of her dreams, haunting her.
Oddly enough, that was the memory that had the torrent of misery ebbing inside her. Yes, she’d ruined lives the last time. But she hadn’t been the one who’d been responsible for the systematic torture and abuse of children. Peter Sutter had headed that club and he was gone.
His wife, that cold, callous bitch, was gone.
Lana had been a stupid, terrified kid and she’d believed a man who said he’d make sure everything stopped.
Now she knew it hadn’t. She’d come back to put things to right.
You’re arguing with your conscience, Lana.
Sighing, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the T-shirt she’d slept in caught up around her thighs. Her mouth was dry, her belly a shriveled little knot, and she wanted a shower.
Rising off the bed, she stretched, arms high overhead, while a headache from the crying jag settled at the base of her skull and started to pound. And the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
Swinging her head around, she found herself trapped in the brown velvet of Adam’s gaze. He leaned against the dresser, his arms crossed over his chest, brows low. For a second, as she stood there staring at him, his gaze left hers, dropped low to linger on her bare legs before traveling back up to stare into her eyes.
“What in the hell are you doing?”
Instead of answering, he pushed off the dresser and paced toward her, his face unreadable. “You do this a lot?”
Blood rushed up her neck. Lana could feel it, staining her cheeks red, the heat of it suffusing her entire face. No point in asking what he meant. He’d been in there while she broke and cried like her heart was broken. “I don’t think it’s any of your business, is it?”
“Twenty years,” he murmured, like she had not said a word. “You come back to town, you won’t say why you’ve been gone. And you spent the past thirty minutes crying like you’ve had your heart ripped out. We used to be friends. Some part of me feels like it should be my business.” He reached up, caught a lock of her hair in his hand.
She tensed and immediately his hand fell away.
The glittering look in his eyes sent a shiver racing through her, though, one that left her skin feeling overheated while her nipples drew tight and pressed against the front of her shirt.
“Twenty years changes a lot of things, Adam,” she said, casually folding her arms over her chest.
His lids drooped low, shielding his gaze. Somehow she didn’t think she’d fooled him. Not on any level. “Does it really, Lana?” Then he shrugged and turned away. “I brought you some coffee, but it’s probably getting cold. Come on downstairs and I’ll see what I can salvage from breakfast. “
Then he was gone, shutting the door quietly behind him.
* * *
A long-sleeved black T-shirt had never looked so sexy until twenty minutes ago.
He hadn’t meant to intrude, but he’d heard her and he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried.
But the way she huddled there on the bed, rigid, her spine so stiff, he hadn’t thought she’d welcome his touch. And other than that one ragged, harsh breath he’d heard as he passed by the door, she worked very hard to keep him from hearing her tears, practically choking in her effort to keep silent.
He absolutely hated that.
He’d planned to say something, but then she stood up and his brain melted, just melted and died as he caught sight of long, sleek legs, strong muscle and sleek calves. The black lace of her panties had peeked out from under the hem of her shirt as she stretched and his blood had rushed to his cock so sudden, it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out from it. And when she’d turned to face him, her nipples had gone from soft to ready for him, ready for his mouth, in a blink.
And it was for him. He’d seen that lambent heat in her gaze, even if she wasn’t about to give in to it.
Attraction was easy, passing. It didn’t surprise him that she wasn’t the type to give in to it at the drop of a hat.
But the thought of those sweet little tits, nipples tight and ready for him, was going to haunt him.
Not as much as the expression on her face now, though.
She sat there like a shadow, her skin pale, her hands fisted in her lap, while she stared out the window at nothing.
She had nibbled at the bacon he’d put in front of her, taken a bite of toast. That was it.
Now she just … sat there.
He wanted to yank her out of that chair, push her up against the wall and kiss her stupid. Then he wanted to yell at her. He wanted to go to his knees and beg her to tell him what was wrong. He wanted to get lost in her … and then maybe beg her to …
Hell. He didn’t know.
He wanted a resolution.
He wanted answers.
He wanted her.
He had always wanted her, but she’d always been untouchable. First she was too young and then she’d been gone.
Now she was like a shadow and life was a fucking monstrous mess.
And he was … ruined.
She slid him a glance and he fought the urge to look away. Every woman he’d touched over the past twenty years, he’d either pretended he was touching her or done it to forget her.
Every drink he’d taken had been to dull the pain or to punish himself for not saving her.
Because he knew.
Not right away, no. If he’d known the second she was calling that she’d needed help, he would have been there, found a way to get it out of her, called the cops … something. But after that second call, with a leaden weight and fear in his gut, the suspicion had grown and then the days bled away and there was no news from her.
The rumors flew and the fear grew and he just knew.
If he’d been a better guy, if he hadn’t been pulling away from her, if she’d trusted him … something, anything. If he’d just been … better, he could have saved her. If she had trusted him the way she trusted Noah, he could have saved her.
That knowledge was the one constant in his life. Maybe he’d stopped reaching for the bottle, but he still hadn’t forgiven himself for that.
And now she was here. Sitting there and watching him with unreadable eyes, her face blank.
Like she had no idea.
Like it didn’t matter.
Like the hell he’d lived with—
Fuck.
It’s over. Ancient history, he told himself. Twenty years of it. What he needed to do was just distance himself from her. He couldn’t have exactly just left her sleeping on the street, but that didn’t mean he had to put himself out there
for her, right?
He’d just mind his own business and try to fix the mess that was his life. Somehow. She was alive and that meant one of his nightmares hadn’t come true. Time to move on from that.
Forward. Away from her. Starting now.
Good plan.
He congratulated himself on that idea. All he had to do was get up and walk away without really engaging with her.
“What do you plan on doing today?” The question seemed to form without him even giving himself permission to ask it.
Lana blinked, a slow, almost lazy lowering of her lids, a faint smile on her lips as she shrugged and looked away.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she drawled, lifting her coffee cup and curling her hands around it. She didn’t drink, though, just held it and stared down into it. “Maybe I’ll sightsee. Catch up with the people who think I’m dead. What do you think?”
He snorted. “I think you’ll stay here and hide.”
She lifted a brow. “I’m not hiding.” A quiet sigh escaped her. “If I wanted to hide, I never would have come back to Madison. I just need to … figure out my next step.”
He thought the next one was obvious.
She should go see her father.
But Adam wasn’t going to suggest it.
He already knew she was going there.
She’d been checking the map online when he walked by his computer earlier. Although she’d shut the window down the second she’d heard him, she hadn’t been fast enough—he saw what she’d been looking up.
There was only one person in there who would interest Lana.
* * *
Lana had powerful memories of her father.
He had always seemed larger than life, working long hours at the electric company, then coming home and helping her with her homework, spending evenings in his workshop, where he crafted rocking chairs and rocking horses and bookcases by hand, selling them at flea markets and the like on weekends, anything he could do to make sure he provided for her.
She’d been his world, and for the longest time he had been hers, the one solid person she could count on. Her mother was a nonentity, somebody who had run off when Lana was just a baby. She had made herself stop caring about her mother when Leanna Rossi hadn’t come to the mother–daughter day in sixth grade. Dad had come, though. He’d switched shifts, and when people eyed them oddly he’d told Lana, People may look at you weird your whole life. It’s up to you whether or not you’ll let that affect you. She had already noticed that people gave him odd looks sometimes. If he didn’t let it bother him, she wouldn’t let it get to her. It had been one of those defining moments in her childhood.
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