The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3)

by Kristen Casey

  Scarletti told her, “Crazy world we live in, right? People are nuts.”

  “Yeah,” Tate agreed, giving Lyla a speaking glance. “Hey, you want us to overnight you this new note? So you can test it with all the others?”

  “Sure. The more stuff we’ve got to put this crackpot away, the better.”

  “Sounds good,” Tate muttered.

  “Well, Ms. Lawson,” the detective said, “How’s it feel, knowing you can sleep easy tonight?”

  “I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that I’ll believe it when I see it,” she told him.

  “And here I thought I was the cynic in the family.”

  ONCE THEY DISCONNECTED the call, Lyla didn’t have to wait long to hear Tate’s thoughts on what Detective Scarletti had told them.

  “I don’t like it,” he groused. “It feels all wrong.”

  Lyla asked, “I agree. How could she take those pictures, get them developed, and then deliver everything in time to return home for her arrest? How does a housebound hoarder do any of the things my stalker has done?”

  “And you haven’t had any contact with her either, right?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I don’t even have a fan club.”

  Tate blew out a long breath, deep in thought. “This lady isn’t the one. I’m almost sure of it.”

  “I know. But…what do we do?”

  “I say we stick to our plan. Especially now that Scarletti isn’t going to be looking at anyone else until he rules this lady in or out.”

  “I agree.”

  Lyla watched curiously as Tate turned down a narrow, two-lane road, taking them further away from the Cleveland suburbs and into a less-developed area of rolling fields and small tracts of woods.

  “It’s pretty here,” she told him.

  “Home always is,” he smiled back.

  She’d be lying if she said that she wasn’t really looking forward to seeing the place Tate had grown up. It was part of what made his new plan so attractive, given that it might be the only chance she ever got to find out more about what made him tick.

  Tate wasn’t quite done talking, however. With his window down and one hand loosely guiding the wheel, he turned to face her and asked, “Lyla, just out of curiosity, who do you think is doing this?”

  “I’ve had this conversation with Scarletti several times,” she told him. “I really can’t think of anyone. As far as I know, there are no former colleagues who resent me. No mortal enemies. No bitter exes.”

  He laughed, “So, you’re a good breaker-upper?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out, mister.”

  “What about someone who wanted the Red Devil gig? Did you compete with anyone over that?”

  “Honestly, no one but Red and Piper even knew the imprint was going to exist. You can’t want something you don’t know is out there. And as far as the bigger authors go—Red Devil is brand new. Not too many people at that level would want to risk their career on an untested entity.”

  “But what does your gut tell you?” Tate prodded. “Is this just some random psycho? Or is this personal?”

  “I…I really don’t know. I’m sorry, Tate.”

  He stewed for a bit, watching the road. Then he muttered, “Well, this doesn’t feel random to me, at all. It feels personal.”

  “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better, or worse.”

  “Me either.”

  AT THE END of a long lane, Tate pulled into the driveway of a tidy white farmhouse with a wraparound porch and planters of flowers hanging from its eaves.

  The sun was just beginning to go down, and the whole place looked exactly like a scene from a jigsaw puzzle or a postcard.

  Lyla’s twisty imagination kicked right in, and she immediately wanted to make the idyllic spot the scene of a nefarious crime. That seemed like poor form, though.

  Tate got out and gestured around, puling her from her thoughts. “This is it. Home base.”

  “It’s really nice.”

  “Thanks. We like it.” He stood there with his hands on his hips and looked around. “Do you want to come in for a minute? Maybe have a snack and use the facilities before we return the rental?”

  “Sure.” Especially if it meant that she’d get to see a stray high school football photo of Tate on a wall or a shot of him in his dress uniform on the mantel. Lyla tried not to rub her hands together in glee at the prospect.

  Tate led her up on the porch, then felt along the top of the doorframe for what Lyla assumed was the house key. While he searched, she pointed at the banner displayed in the front window, a starched flag with a blue background and a silver star at its center.

  “So festive,” she smiled.

  Tate scratched his neck and looked uncomfortable, though. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get them to take that down.”

  “Why? It’s cute.”

  “It’s embarrassing. And completely unnecessary.”

  That seemed a little severe for a simple holiday decoration. Lyla frowned. “I don’t get it,” she said, “What’s wrong with it?”

  Tate studied her face and sighed. “Lyla, what do you think that banner means?”

  “That your parents are patriotic?”

  “They are. For sure. But that’s a service banner. It signifies that an immediate family member of the household has been wounded in action.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry—I didn’t know.” Lyla was pretty sure she couldn’t feel any more stupid at the moment.

  Tate nodded, going over to tap on the glass. “Gold stars are for family killed in action, and blue stars are just for someone serving. They used to display that one,” he told her. “The silver star is newer than the other two, but of course, my mom and dad were all over it.”

  Lyla smiled at him, trying to lighten his mood, “Your parents must be very proud of you.”

  “Well, I try not to let them down.” Tate sighed, smoothed down his shirt, and brandished the key he’d retrieved. “Come on, let’s see what Mom left in the pantry.”

  CREEPING THROUGH THE dim house after Tate, Lyla felt a little shady, like a burglar casing the joint when the owners were out.

  She tried to surreptitiously look around without being too obvious, on the hunt for glimpses of Tate in his natural habitat, even though his parents weren’t even home.

  She was also trying not to trip over something and break her neck. Tate’s mom appeared to have an affection for decorating with all kinds of antiquey-looking receptacles, since there was a variety of baskets, pottery jugs and wrought-iron things nestled in all the corners and sticking out into the hall.

  Tate pointed out the main rooms of the downstairs before bringing Lyla to the kitchen in the back, then rummaged around in the refrigerator and walk-in pantry.

  “Slim pickings, I’m afraid,” he told her. “We’ve got cheese curls that are probably stale by now, since I’m pretty sure I bought this bag about a month ago—and some apple juice. Also…seltzer water.”

  Lyla laughed. “If you find any crayons, this could basically be kindergarten.”

  “Oh, God. You’re right. What are we even doing here?”

  “Don’t worry. I can wait to eat. Just show me where the bathroom is, and maybe a couple of your baby pictures, and I’ll be good to go.”

  “You’re a cheap date, you know that?”

  “I’ll be sure to order heavy at the restaurant later if it will make you feel better.”

  “Nah. No one can eat that many portobello mushrooms,” Tate snarked, then pointed back down the hall. “Bathroom’s the first door on the left. If you turn on the hall light, you will also see every embarrassing school picture ever taken of Tom and me, from K through 12.”

  “Oh, goody,” Lyla told him, twisting an imaginary mustache.

  Tate rolled his eyes. “I’ll see if there’s any bottled water in the mudroom, and then we can get going.”

  BACK OUTSIDE IN the driveway, Lyla was still ticked off and bickering with Tate ab
out those damned childhood photos of his.

  “I mean, did you even have an awkward stage?” she accused. “Braces? A single pimple? Anything?”

  “You don’t have to sound so disappointed,” he retorted.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be, if you’d brought me to your actual home, instead of some perfect-family movie set.”

  “Knowing you, you’ll probably try to kill one of us off in your next book, just to get back at me.”

  Well, that dig hit a little close to home. Lyla stood there sputtering, trying to come up with a suitable response, when she heard something very wrong, over near a big shed at the far side of the yard.

  She motioned frantically to Tate. “Shh.”

  Every nerve instantly on alert, he froze and whispered, “What?”

  “I heard something weird.”

  He moved nearer, ready to shield her from the threat as he scanned the area and listened carefully to the sounds of the falling night. Lyla held still and inched closer, scared.

  The big city, this was not. There could be any number of dangers she wasn’t aware of out here, and unlike Manhattan, there wouldn’t be a single soul to hear or see a thing.

  Beside her, Tate abruptly chuckled and relaxed, however. “Lyla, stop—it’s okay. I think you just heard the alpacas.”

  It was such an incongruent statement, that she completely forgot to keep her voice down. “Excuse me?”

  “Alpacas,” he reiterated. “Over there.” He pointed at the big shed.

  “Like…llamas?” Lyla wondered, utterly confounded. “Here?”

  Tate laughed again. “They’re way better than llamas. My mom sells their hair to some ladies who spin yarn to sell at farmer's markets. I’ll show you.”

  SEVENTEEN

  WHEN LYLA SHUSHED him, Tate had tried to listen over the pounding of his heart in his chest—and the fear that he’d brought trouble to his parents’ sleepy doorstep like a raw, jagged thing in his gut—but all he’d heard were the usual, comforting sounds of home.

  Crickets in the dewy grass. Leaves rustling on the trees. The creak of old wood on the barn when the breeze blew, and the animals settling down for the night…Oh.

  Thank heaven that had been all it was. He was still feeling some residual angst, however, when he pulled Tom’s pickup truck out of the garage to park next to their rental.

  “Listen, why don’t you drive my brother’s truck?” Tate told Lyla. “If someone really is looking for the SUV, you’ll be safer in a vehicle they don’t recognize. I’ll lead the way on the drive to the rental agency, but you stay close behind.”

  Lyla nodded and snapped off a passable salute. “Aye, aye, Captain,” she said.

  “Call me and turn on your cell’s speakerphone. If you set it on the seat beside you, you can tell me immediately if something goes wrong.”

  “Won’t you be watching?” she wondered uncertainly.

  “Of course, sweetheart.” Tate took her into his arms and nuzzled her hair. “It’s only a precaution, and only for a little while. We’ll be back together before you know it.”

  “You promised me we wouldn’t have to split up.”

  “To catch the villain,” he smiled. “I won’t ask you to split up to catch the villain. This is only to return a rental car.”

  “So you say,” she muttered grudgingly.

  AS TATE HAD hoped, the ride to Mentor was quick and the drop-off of the SUV reasonably easy. Mindful that they still hadn’t eaten dinner, he and Lyla then headed to a tavern he knew nearby.

  He’d heard from his parents that an old high school friend had bought it recently, and was serving some pretty decent gastropub fare, but he ought to have realized he wouldn’t be the only former classmate stopping by to check things out and support the home team.

  Mere moments after their arrival, Tate and Lyla ran smack into Kev Harris, the most irritating guy in the entire tenth grade, way back when. Figured it would be him.

  Inwardly, Tate groaned. Kevin was drunk as usual, and exactly the kind of horse’s ass that would think it was funny to share awkward, fifteen-year-old tidbits from Tate’s adolescence with Lyla. There was no avoiding it, though—Kev had recognized Tate instantly.

  After greeting him and leaning into a sloppy bro-hug, Tate made the introductions, and kept things general. Lyla must have caught on to his reservations because when she reached out to shake Kev’s hand, her game face was firmly affixed.

  Kevin didn’t let go when he should have, though, instead keeping hold of Lyla and turning her hand so he could get a better look at the inside of her wrist.

  “What’s that?” he demanded.

  “It’s a—”

  In seconds, Tate could see where this was going. Lyla would say it was a quill, and inevitably follow that up with the fact that she was an author.

  From there, Kev would want to know how much money she made and whether she was famous—and then he’d slither right into taking selfies to post on social media.

  Kevin would probably want to get Lyla’s autograph, too, and Tate would bet good money that it would show up on all kinds of auction sites once he had it.

  None of that boded well for Tate and Lyla’s new, supposedly-low profile, however.

  Kev could fuck this mission before it even got off the ground, so Tate cut Lyla off with a terse, “Dude, you have eyes. It’s a feather.” For good measure, he added, “Lyla likes birds.”

  Lyla stared at him, but Kevin only laughed.

  “Oh, that’s real classy.” He turned to Tate, annoyingly superior as usual. “Bro, I’ve seen you bag all kinds of chicks, but tapping the biker broads is new, even for you.”

  In her neat cardigan, Lyla was about the furthest thing from a biker girl that Tate could imagine, but luckily, she seemed supremely unbothered by the comparison. She just cocked her head and announced, “Kevin, I suspect you wouldn’t know class if it crawled up your nose and died there.”

  Tate tried like hell to hold in his stunned laugh, but it was impossible. Lyla was fucking amazing every time she opened her mouth, and he adored her.

  Kev turned beet red, but she made a smooth escape before he could come up with a retort.

  “Will you excuse me?” she asked Tate sweetly. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room.”

  “I’ll be here,” he told her, then watched until she was securely closed inside.

  From this vantage, Tate had a perfect view of the front and back doors of the tavern, as well as the bathrooms. He knew from experience that the bathrooms had no windows, either. No one was getting to Lyla without him seeing it.

  Once she was safe, he turned back to Kev.

  “May I?” he inquired, neatly separating the man’s beer can from his sweaty hand and setting it aside. Then, Tate shoved him back against the wall and held the prick there.

  “What the fuck, Monroe?” Kevin bleated. “You seriously mad over some ho you prolly just met?”

  “Kev, Lyla is a truly decent human being and unlike you, one of my favorite people on this planet. If you so much as think another disrespectful word about her, I’m going to fillet you with my fucking pocketknife.”

  At least Kevin had retained enough sense not to fight back. He hung there, unresisting, while he sputtered, “So much for bros before hos, asshole.”

  “Kev, you’re not my bro, and you’re clearly too drunk to stay here any longer trolling for hos. Call a damn cab and go home.”

  Tate caught sight of the bouncer headed their way, and reluctantly let Kevin go.

  The knucklehead found his feet and laughed. “Monroe, you’ve been in the desert too long. No one takes cabs anymore, you dickwad.”

  He wrenched his polo shirt into place with the kind of jacked-up dignity only lushes could muster, and then began weaving his unsteady way toward the front door. Tate gave the bouncer a nod, and the guy changed course to follow Kev out—hopefully, to make sure the tool didn’t do something stupid, like get behind the wheel.

  Lyla popped up at
Tate’s elbow a moment later, with only the scent of her seductive perfume as warning.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Let’s just say, old Kev got even classier after you left. But don’t worry—I set him straight.”

  “Yikes,” she grimaced. “That only makes me more worried.”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry about what he said. Apparently, my tolerance for idiocy was much larger when I was sixteen.”

  “It’s okay. I appreciate you sticking up for me.”

  Tate knew he ought to say something tough like, It’s my job, but those weren’t the words that exited his lips. Instead, he murmured, “Always,” and watched, intrigued, as Lyla’s eyes went soft as honey.

  Before he could decide whether to kiss her or not, she spun toward the dance floor, though, jumpy as a jackrabbit at the sudden commotion out there. “What’re they all doing?”

  Tate glanced over. “Dancing, Lyla. That’s called dancing. You may have heard of it.”

  “I know that!” she retorted, in annoyance. “But what kind is it?”

  “Two-step. You wanna take a spin before we eat?”

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  Tate grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the floor. “It’s easy. Come on.”

  “Tate, I—”

  He tucked Lyla into his arms and led her through a few steps, counting off the beat for her. Her nose crinkled up adorably as she concentrated on placing her feet, but the rigid set of her spine relaxed little by little as she got the hang of it.

  Before long, Lyla was laughing and getting into it. “Hey, you’re pretty good at this,” she yelled above the music.

  Tate shook his head. “I swear to God, you better not tell anyone—especially the guys from my team. I would never hear the end of it.”

  “Like I’m ever going to meet them,” she scoffed.

  Her certainty about that fact made Tate pause, but he went on, “Or Red and Luca. Definitely don’t say anything to them, either.”

  “Tate, they’re your best friends,” Lyla argued. “They won’t care.”

  “Lyla, those two got years of comedy out of the fact that I grew up in Ohio. What do you think they’d do with this information?”