How much help and how far that help had contributed to his death were as yet unanswered.
Then there was Anna Jones. It was as if she’d dropped off the face of the earth. Three months ago she checked out of her rental address in Garfield and no one, friends, acquaintances, neighbours, had seen or heard from her since.
Was her disappearance by choice or something more sinister? There was no evidence of either.
Regardless, yet another avenue of investigation found them traipsing up a dead-end alley, and any initial hopes they had that the killer could have slipped up and left a clue were beginning to fade.
Time was ticking towards the Night Terror’s next move and resources in the Department were stretched. Her duo of babysitters had long since passed their twenty-four hour vigil and returned to engage in real policing, as well they should.
Through all the frustration, the wall-pounding and head-banging, Seth had been there. Sure, he’d capitalised on their discoveries, submitted a string of news-breaking reports to his editor. But not once had he broken his promise to her about Bec and her family. The knowledge made her hope. And, dare she say, dream.
The nightmares had gone. Whether from having Seth by her side each night or her new-found understanding of what had happened in her past, she couldn’t tell.
All she knew was that their time together was intense. So intense, she welcomed the breathing space his drink with a friend was giving her this evening.
She snatched up the conditioner and squeezed too much into her palm. Dumping the bottle back onto the shelf, she jabbed the cream into her hair, working it through from the scalp to the ends. Then, closing her eyes, she allowed her head to fall back, the full force of the hot stream hitting her upturned face.
Good to have time alone to regroup. Rejuvenate. Recover from living in each other’s space for the past three days.
A door outside slammed.
Her lids jerked open, a mix of water and conditioner burning her eyes. Scrunching them closed, she fumbled for the towel before rubbing her face, all the while her heart skipping a happy dance in her chest.
He was back early. Thoughts of their last shower together saw the skipping move lower.
‘Seth?’
No answer.
‘Seth, is that you?’
Something crashed in her bedroom followed by a shattering of glass. Her gut lurched. Now all her heart could do was thump.
Frozen, ears supersensitive, she waited, straining for another sound. Nothing. Leaving the water running, she eased the shower door open and slipped into her robe. Knotting the belt, she scanned for a weapon, anything, cursing the gun still lying in her bedside table drawer.
Hairdryer clutched in one hand, nail scissors in the other, she turned the handle and edged open the door.
Her room was empty, the window behind her bedside table wide open. It had been closed before she entered the shower. She was sure of it.
The blinds clattered, a haphazard stirring as they caught the breeze, and beneath them lay her lamp, the spiral energy-saving globe smashed into her carpet.
A thud sounded from the living room.
She traded the hairdryer and scissors for her gun. The door was ajar and she crept towards it and listened. No sound.
Leading with her weapon, she sidled down the hall with small, soundless steps. Her heart pounded. Everything else was silent. Still. A scan of the living room found it empty. Almost.
A bundle of mottled black-and-grey fur mewed before jumping awkwardly down from the couch to wrap round her ankles. There was a waver in her chuckle as her shoulders dropped. Her body relaxed. The Night Terror, this case, it had her so jumpy she didn’t know herself anymore.
‘Tumbles, you naughty boy. What will Juz say when he hears you’ve stooped to breaking and entering?’ She dropped to her haunches and the cat leaned into her palm, rubbing his ear against her fingers as he purred loudly.
He bucked his head into her hand and she sighed.
Her hand jerked.
In freeze-frame motion, like the pause and rewind of a tape in her mind, something clicked. Breath caught in her throat. The fingers around her gun tensed as an image tugged at her subconscious. Slowly she stood and turned towards the far corner of the room.
Vacant eye sockets gaped from a face singed with the burn of strong alkali. The body slumped the way bodies do with the loss of muscle tone, the torso jutting awkwardly to the left.
Ignoring the attention-seeking mew of the cat, Jayda’s head jerked right, then left as she backed up until she could feel the wall against her shoulders. She called Chase and he said he’d be there in five. Then, with methodical precision, she moved from room to room, clearing each one as she went.
Not until every cupboard was opened, the underside of every bed and couch and table checked, did she allow herself to stop and feel.
She didn’t know what to do, so she sat on the couch, Tumbles purring contentedly on her knee, no less relieved to discover the body was a mannequin.
Her gaze dropped from the lifeless stare to the paper pinned to its chest. Blood-red letters bled into the fibre.
Your turn next.
Seth jumped out of the car and bounded up the two flights of stairs to the apartment.
He got the job!
The grin wouldn’t wipe from his face, even if he tried. He’d done what he set out to do. Made it.
He couldn’t wait to tell Jayda.
His heart leapt. Who’d have thought? After spending almost every minute of the past three days together, he wanted more.
Not once had claustrophobia hit. And he’d waited for it. Lain silent in bed, her body curled into his as he listened to the even keel of her breathing and waited for his flight mechanism to overtake the warmth and rightness of the moment.
He was still waiting, but he doubted it was going to show. Which was why he was so damn eager to get back to her now. She had no idea of his real reason for leaving this afternoon, and he’d hated the omission. But he was ready to share and celebrate now the job was a certainty. He knew just how to celebrate.
His groin tightened with familiar need. One that roamed hand-in-hand with a sassy, headstrong detective who had lush green eyes and hair like a halo of bright, red flames.
Scaling the stairs, his strides long and quick, he pushed through the fire door. The hard wood slammed against his back as he barely stopped himself from stumbling over his feet.
Crime scene tape surrounded her apartment.
A uniformed officer glared at him from outside her door, catapulting his heart into his throat. He tried to swallow past the pain.
Her security detail had finished their token twenty-four hour stint. Stretched resources, they’d said. Idiocy, more like it. She was the target of a madman and needed protection. He’d vowed to provide it, and apart from today’s meeting with Carson, he had.
Realisation slammed into his brain. He’d failed her.
No! She couldn’t be . . . he wouldn’t say the word. Not now, not when everything about them was beginning to make sense.
His legs worked independent of his brain, every step bringing him closer to his worst nightmare. He made to duck under the tape only to be blocked by the cop on the other side.
‘You can’t come through. This is a crime scene.’
The pound of his heart bellowed in his ears. He scuffed his fingers through his hair, craning his neck to see beyond the man. There was nothing to see but a closed door and an inordinate amount of blue-and-white tape that screamed disaster. ‘It also happens to be my girlfriend’s apartment.’
He waited for the weirdness to hit. Nothing but rightness followed. That and a sense of loss.
‘Wait while I let the detectives know you’re here. Name?’
‘Seth Friedin. Is she . . .?’ The words gagged at the back of his throat.
The man squinted then grinned. ‘As a doornail.’
Red exploded across Seth’s vision and he wanted to beat every nuance of
the man’s smirk from his face. His fists clenched and he stepped forwards.
‘Seth.’
‘Jayda?’ His head jerked back. The woman he wanted to see more than anything stepped through the doorway. He’d never felt so happy to be wrong in his life. ‘You’re alive!’ He side-stepped the officer, skirting the tape to wrap her in close.
‘Did you think I wasn’t?’ Her body shook as she sank into his arms. Hell, he never wanted to let her go.
He buried his face into her hair, breathing in fresh, green apples and Jayda. ‘When I saw the tape . . . I . . .’
The man beside them didn’t even try to hide his interest.
He moved Jayda aside. ‘I have something to tell you. But later.’ He tilted her head and stared into eyes he wanted to wake up to every day for the rest of his life. The realisation was like one of her strong, steamy espressos on a cold winter’s day—flavoursome and comforting. Not an ounce of claustrophobia in sight.
‘What happened?’
‘He was here.’
‘The Night Terror?’
She nodded, her knees wobbling, her steps unsteady. Seth swore. Arm wrapped tight about her shoulders, he pushed the apartment door open and lead her inside. A couple of uniforms stood beside the window, heads together, hushed voices, while a forensics officer dusted for prints in the far corner. As they reached the couch, the officer turned and only then could he see what she’d been dusting.
‘Shit!’
Cavernous eye sockets gaped out from a face dulled through death, the mouth and nose burned white with chemicals. His gaze dropped to the left hand, and sure enough, the ring finger was severed cleanly at the joint.
It could have been her.
His arm tightened about Jayda’s shoulder.
She touched his elbow. ‘It’s not real, Seth. It’s just a dummy.’
The body skewed stiffly to one side and another glance revealed the waxy sheen of its skin. The officer’s smirk suddenly made sense. Not that it excused his insensitivity.
His gaze staggered over the plastic form, taking in the short black skirt and top. ‘Is that—’
She nodded. ‘My clothes.’ The outfit she’d worn to dinner at Antonio’s.
‘The bastard! What the hell is he playing at? What does he want?’
‘Me.’ She shuddered again. It was just one crack in the veneer of her control. Then he felt her body tense as her chin kicked upwards and her eyes fired.
God, he loved that about her. The fight. The sass. She had a shell as hard as titanium, but her centre was soft. He knew, because she’d let him in, let him see how soft.
Then he saw the note.
The threat of loss taunted him. He’d felt it just before, staring at the crime scene tape webbed across her front door. He felt it now with the killer’s intention outlined so clearly in blood red.
His mind screamed. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow Jayda to be ripped from his life. Not now. Never.
The truth was so clear to him, but he needed time to convince her. That she was his future.
51
Wide hazel eyes stared out from the corner of the room. The creature huddled between the sofa legs, shaking, knowing.
His throat clogged and he switched his gaze to the powder-blue walls.
The drug had taken effect, the cat’s three working legs now as useless as the fourth. Soon it would lose consciousness and know nothing past perpetual sleep.
His breath quickened.
Car tyres screeched from the road below and his fingers faltered around the knife handle. He’d never been one for hurting animals. His art was of a different variety, his canvas set through actions other than his or the pitiful creature sprawled out before him.
His gaze shifted and his legacy came into focus. Testimony to all he’d achieved.
Power up, pussy boy!
He turned the blade. It sliced easily through his skin, red beading along the wound as it spread. Old scars making way for new.
He focused on the pain, as he had so many times before.
Stop your whining, boy. Take it like a man.
Pain is power.
He closed his eyes, lost himself in the sensation. His nostrils flared. The metallic tang rolled across the back of his tongue, an old friend, as he and pain became one.
He inhaled. Exhaled. Slow. Steady.
His eyes opened.
He moved to the bathroom and cleaned up—his skin, the knife. A bandage put paid to the blood.
Then, knife in hand, he re-entered the living room, ready for what had to be done.
52
Seth shot Jayda that killer grin of his—the one that dimpled his chin and made her body quiver.
‘Make yourself comfortable while I get coffee.’
He left the room. Jayda’s feet remained glued to the polished floorboards as she looked around. Any other circumstances and she’d jump at the opportunity to gain insight into his life.
But she wasn’t in Seth’s living room by choice. Her apartment was a crime scene, her building no longer safe. Hackett’s words. This time he’d informed her in person while pushing her out her front door.
She hadn’t fought particularly hard. Sleep wouldn’t have come easily with the memory of that mutilated hunk of plastic in her living room, despite forensics having hauled it away. She’d known that eventually the Night Terror would grow tired of taunting her and move in for the kill. She’d just imagined she had more time.
The slap of her overnight bag on the floor echoed through the open area. She took a few tentative steps forwards, if only to leave the direction of her thoughts behind.
All she wanted was to shuck her shoes, curl her legs up and sink back into the warm, comfortable cushions of a couch. Only Seth’s couch didn’t look like the kind one curled up into. Pristine black leather aside, it looked as if it wasn’t a day over . . . a day old. Weird since she knew he’d lived here for the past five years.
She perched on the edge, her only concession to ‘relaxation’ toeing off her shoes. She tugged the edges of her jacket together and looked around.
Very little she’d seen so far of the Victorian cottage fit with the man she’d come to know.
The living room radiated an unused air, barren but for the essentials. The absence of family photos was no surprise, given his ailing relationship with his parents, but there was a blatant lack of anything else personal. No tatty magazines or newspapers, no half-open books or knick-knacks or stuff littering the coffee table or sideboard. Nothing to show outside interests or life beyond his work. The furniture appeared new but belonged to another era—Grandpa Joe’s. Even the Turkish rug looked as if it had rarely seen a pair of feet.
Sterile. The word was perfect for this home without a heart. Was the rest the same?
Her gaze darted in the direction Seth had disappeared. Damn! She’d forgotten to remind him no instant on the coffee.
It occurred to her that she could follow, but she was too exhausted to care. Instead, she gave in to need and shuffled backwards until she leaned against the resistant, upright leather. Her eyes closed, her mind adrift. From some distant place she felt her head slump to the side. Her breathing slowed.
Dull ringing filled the world. The dark flickered, then burst with colour—a vision all too familiar, yet different. The images vivid this time, the lines sharper, more focused than ever before.
The child craned her neck. Her slight body trembled, eyes wide as she peered through the red-splattered chair legs. The splotches looked like paint, like the day she’d dropped her tub in art and thick red had oozed down her easel and onto the floor. Only this time was different. This time the red was blood.
She tucked her knees closer into her body, hugged them, as if by curling up tighter she might be able to disappear.
A woman was crying. Red curls cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, the same colour as the girl’s, but for the blood. There was a lot of blood. She scuffled backwards, hiding deeper under the dini
ng table until she bumped the chair on the other side.
Her breath stuck like syrup in her throat. Slowly, he turned. She couldn’t see his face. Had never seen it. All she knew was it was evil.
The woman screamed. ‘Run, Sammy. Run!’
The girl scuttled out through the jumble of chair legs and belted for the open front door. The woman screamed again, a gurgling, horrifying wail, then there was silence.
She didn’t look back, didn’t stop. She ignored his call, kept running, legs pounding out over the concrete, lungs burning until she thought she would die.
She ran, knowing she ran for her life.
Strong arms enveloped her and she struggled. Caught! She twisted and punched and kneed, wanting to hurt him, wanting to make him pay—
‘Jayda, I’ve got you.’ The smell of pine surrounded her. ‘Shh, it’s okay, I’m here now.’ She collapsed into the familiar warmth. She was safe. He made her safe.
‘Jayda?’
Soft lips brushed her hair, one hand curving over her cheek, combing a strand back from her face. Her eyes flew open and Seth’s face filled her vision.
She tried to think past the thunder in her ears. ‘What happened?’
‘Another nightmare.’
Her heart still pounded, her skin was cold and clammy beneath her clothes. The same as every other time. Only something was different.
She pulled at the dream, struggling to remember. Something dragged at her subconscious. Something important.
‘What is it?’
‘I saw something. Something that made everything else make sense.’ She clenched her eyelids closed, willing the dream back. ‘Dammit! Why can’t I remember?’
‘You’ve had a scare.’
‘I don’t scare.’
Bravado talking. Her erratic heartbeat didn’t lie. But an admission would mean giving in to so much more than the fear. It meant giving in to the Night Terror—both old and new. And that she refused to do.
Lethal in Love Page 36