She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? People are dying, and you’re ramping up for round two?”
“To be fair,” he said as he pulled up his pants, “people were going to die when you climbed on top of me for round one.”
“Touché. But—” Carey hopped off the table and began straightening her own clothes. “I’m going to say it like you have to take care of yourself before you take care of others. Put on your own oxygen mask first, and all that,” she said with a mischievous grin.
“Let’s make sure to tell the victims’ families that if we don’t help Sloane and Taylor catch this fucker in time.” Dawson sat down and clicked through a few spreadsheets before getting to the search results.
“To be fair,” she said, mirroring the timbre of his voice, “we couldn’t do anything until the search was over, anyway.”
“Shit, okay,” he said. “Should we start with looking through the ‘not guilty’ verdicts and acquittals?”
Carey slid onto his lap and rested her elbows on the desk next to his keyboard.
“This is how you work?” he growled, slipping a hand around her stomach.
She grinned over her shoulder. “Life is short. Clearly.” She waved her hand over the mess of papers and photos in front of them before turning back to the monitor. “Do they list the jurors?”
“Yeah, they would be listed in the trial paperwork.”
“Well, get clicking. We know a half a dozen names to look for.”
Dawson chose the first record he found with a ‘not guilty’ verdict and skimmed through the crime, not seeing any part of the scene that matched their pictures, and none of the names on the jury records matched Sloane’s report.
He moved on to the next, opening each record, examining it for similarities and closing it feeling defeated. All the while, Carey sat on his lap, shifting her weight every few minutes, rubbing her ass on his cock, keeping him half hard throughout the entire ordeal.
He was about ready to give up when he opened a case that the jury acquitted. Immediately he saw the state forest listed in the police records. Excitedly, he clicked through pages of PDFs until he found the jury roster. Right there, listed at the top, was a name he recognized.
“Fuck yes!” he yelled excitedly. “This is it!” He hit print, and the machine next to him began whirring and spat out the first of hundreds of pages.
“Go back,” Carey said slapping the desk. “What did he do? What happened? How did he get off?”
“All right, Norman McIntyre was tried for attempted murder of his wife...” Dawson skimmed through the document, trying to read as quickly as possible. “His previous two wives died in suspicious circumstances. One was crushed under a car while changing a tire.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, McIntyre was present for her death. No charges filed. His second wife fell down the steps after a night of drinking. When the cops got to the scene, the body was cold, and McIntyre had a blood alcohol level of point zero two.”
“So one beer two hours prior.”
“His wife,” Dawson continued, “had no alcohol in her system and just traces of a prescription sleep aid. No charges filed.”
“How?” Carey cried. “No wonder this guy feels invincible.”
“Okay, so this case, he took her to the state forest for a picnic, then to the bonfire pit, and threw her off the cliff... Oh shit, I remember this one now! She wouldn’t testify. She refused and we couldn’t force her. Her lawyer fought our subpoena with spousal privilege. That’s why he was acquitted. I couldn’t get anywhere without the damned victim.”
“She was too scared to testify. I don’t fucking blame her. Look at what happened to one and two. What happened after the trial? Do you have any sort of follow-up on her? Did she know anything about one and two?”
Dawson’s eyes darted across the screen. He flipped through documents, opening and closing files, looking for any sort of post-trial note. “Here, here. DeWitt has a note. As a Federal Marshal. He must have been promoted during this case. Okay, he states that he attempted several times to contact the victim and she has left the area and has proved to be untraceable. And he notes no further contact is required.”
“Do you think he finally got her?” Carey turned around, her eyes wide.
“That or she fucking ran.”
“She’d be one lucky woman to be the one that got away.”
A heavy silence fell over them. This stranger had survived a homicidal husband, only to fall into his clutches again.
“We need to take this to the police. They need to contact the other jurors, bring them into protective custody. I know Taylor and Sloane were doing this off the books, but now is the time to turn it over. I need to call DeWitt and let him know about the photographs. My assistant was supposed to get his contact info for me.” His chest ached as he wrapped both of his arms around Carey. All of their playful banter didn’t matter suddenly. Having a name, a picture, a criminal history made this man all too real. For some reason this fucker had been watching the two of them. They couldn’t get him before, but that didn’t mean he was untouchable. Kidnapping and killing the twelve people that sat on your jury was not a crime he could dodge. But they needed to find him before that happened.
“Come on,” he said patting her side gently. “Let’s get this taken care of, then get far away from it for a few hours.”
She nodded, standing slowly. “Dawson, the one that got away.” Her face lit up.
“I didn't get away, I’m right here.”
“No, the poem. ‘The one that got away.’ This is all about his wife. She is alive, and he wants her. He didn’t get her. She went into hiding.”
Victim of Devotion
Hot Pursuit
Liza Mitchell
Published by Feather & Bleed Press, 2019.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains extremely sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language that may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is strictly intended for those over the age of 18.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual. No one is related in this book.
VICTIM OF DEVOTION
Copyright © 2019 Liza Mitchell
Edited by Jennifer at Mistress Editing
CHAPTER ONE
______________
KATE
Kate surveyed the train car as she pressed herself against the back wall. She’d been pressed against walls for years. Waiting for the train, eating at a diner, sitting in a waiting room, her back was always covered. Her eyes always moving. Her path always changing. Change was the only consistent thing in her life.
People never realize just how predictable they are until their life depends on it.
For the past few years, staying alive had become her full-time job. It consumed every decision she made. Every choice had become complicated, worth analyzing.
Did she catch the train at this station yesterday? She could go two days in a row, but not three. She’d come here two days last week. Was it Wednesday and Tuesday too? Forget it, just walk to the next one.
Her life was governed by a long list of unwritten rules. No social media. Period. Use a post office box. Change it monthly. Sublet an apartment. Change it frequently. Work for cash. Don’t keep clients for too long. Use a pre-paid phone. Change it monthly, text him your new number, but not with any regularity. Don’t keep a regular work schedule. Don’t trust ride shares. Don’t use the same statio
n to go to work and come home. So many don’ts. So many changes. Was she really living?
She had a book open on her lap, but she didn’t read it. She never did. Instead, she glanced around the train with a blank expression on her face, scanning the crowd. A few eyes met hers and she memorized their features. He might send someone else after her. ALthough he was so fucking narcissistic, she doubted he would ever trust someone else enough to send them in his stead.
One man kept looking at her. He’d been waiting next to Kate on the platform too. She’d assumed he was just a clueless tourist. While she’d deliberately chosen to stand on the wrong platform, that guy had seemed like a chicken with his head cut, unable to figure out where to wait or which train he wanted.
She frequently stood facing the wrong platform, or if the trains didn’t share a platform, she would spend most of her time waiting on one, then sprint down the steps and cross under the tracks. Always bobbing and weaving. Until she sat down—with her back against a wall.
This was the was the closest she could get to feeling safe. The few minutes on a train or bus when she knew she wasn't being followed. At least in person.
Her cell phone was a constant source of panic. Truly it was a necessity, but he was so good with computers, she felt like it was just a matter of time until he found her.
The train slowed to a stop, and passengers shuffled on and off the carriage. The nervous, jerky man exited, and Kate relaxed. Slightly. As the train pulled away, people settled in. Those getting off at the next stop made their way to the doors, preparing to jump out as soon and they opened. The next stop was Kate’s too. But she always waited until everyone was moving on and off the train, hoping to just get lost in the milieu.
She pushed her way across the platform and hurried out to the street. She turned right—her apartment was to the left—and walked around the block. Never walk directly to your home. Never take the same route twice.
The smell of curry filled the sidewalk, and she paused in front of an Indian restaurant. When was the last time she’d gotten buttered chicken? She’d kill for some tonight. She hadn’t called ahead, and she didn’t want to be standing around waiting on the food this close to her building. Tomorrow, she promised herself.
Kate stomped down the street, her gaze darting around. Don’t get comfortable. Don’t let your guard down. Men like him don’t give up.
She turned down an alley three blocks before her apartment and cut back out onto the street. She unlocked the gate to the fence around her building. One key. She opened the front door. Two keys. Climbed the steps to her floor and addressed the two dead bolts on her door. Four keys.
She crossed the hall and dropped her bags, going to disarm her self-installed alarm system.
Except.
It wasn’t beeping. It wasn’t counting down the seconds she had to disarm it.
She’d set it that morning.
She always did.
Kate turned and ran back to her front door, her footsteps echoing in her empty apartment.
Arms materialized from the dark, wrapping around her and covering her mouth.
He found me.
She sure as hell wasn’t going down without a fight. She kicked her legs, slamming her heels against his shins. He roared in anger behind her and tried to wrestle her to the ground. He still held her tightly, and she pushed off of the floor, sending them both stumbling backwards.
“Kate, Kate! It’s me, Grant!”
She froze, her elbow poised ready to strike. “Stop yelling. What the fuck are you doing here? Are you trying to get me killed?” she hissed as she dropped her arms and stalked down the hallway to the kitchen.
For fuck’s sake. She needed a drink. Gripping the wineglass, she considered chugging directly from the bottle. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, making her hands shake. She didn’t want him to see just how fucking wrecked she was. Instead she gripped the bottle and poured slowly, deliberately, every muscle tensed in concentration.
He didn’t get to show up here and break into her—clearly unsecure—apartment and turn everything upside down in a matter of thirty seconds. Unless…
“Are you going to offer me one?” Grant asked.
She glared at him from behind the rim of her wineglass. “That depends. Are you here to tell me my husband is dead?”
He shook his head. “Quite the opposite.”
“Fuck, you can’t be here. You of all people should know that.” She leaned over the shitty Formica countertop, refusing to look at him.
He stepped closer and reached out, fingers twisting through her hair. “Aren’t you a little happy to see me?” His other hand traveled around her waist pulling her back against him.
She melted into his solid chest, closing her eyes and pretending she was actually his. That they were any normal couple who could hold each other in the kitchen after a long day of work. She counted to ten as his hands slipped under her shirt, sending shivers up her spine. It had been years since someone had touched her. Literally years. Since she’d gone into hiding, brushes on the subway and handshakes had been the extent of the physical contact she’d had with others. Now his arm snaked around her, holding her tight against him, exploring her stomach. Intimate and soothing. But she wasn’t allowed to relax.
She spun around and pushed away from him. “Stop. What are you doing here? How did you even get in?”
“He’s resurfaced. And we need your help,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, though his eyes still raked over her body.
“No. Absolutely not. I’ve been going through hell the past few years trying to stay under his radar. Because you couldn’t do your job and keep me safe.”
“He’s kidnapped eight people. The jurors. He’s going to kill them.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” she said, shaking her head. “Why them? They acquitted him.”
“It makes sense if you think like a sociopath—are you going to let eight innocent people die? Even though they set your murderer-husband free. Or is this just the type of thing that would drag you out of hiding?”
“That son of a bitch.” She exhaled slowly, staring out at the busy sidewalk below. Hundreds of people living completely normal, uncomplicated lives.
CHAPTER TWO
______________
GRANT
Twenty -four hours earlier...
The phone on his desk lit up like a goddamn dance floor, dragging his attention away from the pile of paperwork. It also rang with that odd low trill that was barely recognizable amongst the noises in the field office. It made sense to have the phones ring some unobtrusive sound, but he missed easily a third of his calls because of that damn robotic tone.
“DeWitt.”
There was silence on the other end and some quiet clicking before a deep male voice answered, “You are a hard man to hunt down.”
“Yeah, well, you got me. Who are you and what do you need?”
“Do you treat all of your callers like this?”
He stopped writing and slammed his hand on his desk. “Only when I don’t know who the fuck they are or how they got this number. Start talking or I’m hanging up.” Truthfully, he wanted to know what the hell was going on. Since he’d started his position with the US Marshals, most of his business was with other law enforcement. The guy on the other end of this call sure as fuck did not fit that bill.
“Calm down, it’s Dawson Carter.”
“Blast from the past, man. What have you been up to? What’s going on?”
“Well, I’m the District Attorney now,” Dawson answered.
“Congrats, man. Still living in Lakeside?”
“Yeah. Looks like you moved down to the city?”
“I just went where the job took me,” Grant said.
“Listen, I’d love to catch up, but I’m calling for business.” Dawson dropped his laid-back tone, and like a reflex, Grant straightened his posture and grabbed a pen.
“What’s going on?” Grant asked.
“Do you remember a case for Norman McIntyre?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he answered through clenched teeth. He always knew this day would come.
Dawson continued, “He attacked his wife, and we tried him for attempted murder. She was fucking terrified of him and refused to testify. He was acquitted. McIntyre also had two other wives die under weird fucking circumstances. It looks like you tried to pull together a case on those, too, but he was a slippery fucker.”
“I’ve been involved with a lot of cases, Dawson. Why are you calling me about this one?”
“Because your pictures are all over a thumb drive he sent to the police.”
“What are you talking about?” Grant hissed.
“McIntyre has been keeping an eye on all of us involved in that case. Detective Taylor Craig, Sloane in IT, CSI Falzon, me, and you.
He sent a message and this flash drive to Taylor while she was fucking on vacation. Along with a collection of severed thumbs.
“He’s kidnapped most of the jury, and Sloane believes he posed as a confidential informant to deliver her video feed of the prisoners. He promises to murder them once he’s collected all thirteen.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘thirteen?’ There’s only twelve people on a jury.”
“I think he wants Katheryn, his wife.”
Grant’s cheeks burned. “No fucking way is he getting to her!”
“So you do know where she is?” Dawson’s voice was measured on the other end of the phone, too calm. Too calculated.
“How would I know where she is? But he tried to kill her. Of course he wants to finish the job, he’s a narcissist. He doesn’t accept failure. Our job is to protect her.”
“I thought you didn’t remember the case, DeWitt.”
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