“I felt guilt after killing that man on the beach. He raped me and I still felt guilt. I don’t this time, Kane. I feel happy he’s dead. That doesn’t feel normal.”
He halts the car at our front gate and punches in a security code, glancing over at me to ask, “Normal by whose definition?”
“My training. My textbooks,” I reply as he pulls us into the garage.
“All right,” he says, killing the engine and turning to face me. “Then per some books, you’re not normal. First of all, I doubt seriously anyone who wrote those fucking books faced a serial killer who also killed their mother. And if you were normal, beautiful, I wouldn’t be in love with you. And before you tell me how dysfunctional that is, how dysfunctional we are, you are not one of them. I know that’s what you think. That you’re one of the killers you hunt, but you are not one of them.”
“They’re drawn to me. Roger was drawn to me.”
“And therefore, you were able to kill him when someone else would have ended up dead. Do not let that bastard fuck with your head. He was drawn to you because you were a threat. He needed to control you and he failed.”
“Because it takes a killer to catch a killer?” I challenge.
“You’re not a killer, Lilah. You do what’s necessary. You’re willing to kill when necessary. Two different things.”
My cellphone rings and certain it must be Murphy again, I grab it to find my brother calling. “Andrew,” I say. “He must have heard about Pocher.”
Kane’s lips flatten but he says nothing. He exits the car and I do the same, answering the call with, “You heard.”
“I heard. Are you here?”
“We just got to the house. Why?”
“I have a dead body on my hands. I need you.”
“What dead body?” I ask and Kane is instantly in view at the end of the car, watching me. I guess when you buried a body the last time you were here, the words dead body get your attention. “And why do you need me? You have like seventy people on staff,” I add.
“A bride, Lilah. A woman in a wedding dress. I’m sure you can see why that makes me think of you.”
My spine stiffens. “Text me the address,” I say and disconnect, and Kane appears by my side.
“A dead bride, one week after you proposed, and the day we return to the island. The day Pocher reappears. There are no coincidences. This is not a coincidence.”
“No,” he says, handing me the keys. “It is not.”
CHAPTER THREE
It’s so cold that if I were a guy, I’d be a girl right now, and anyone who doesn’t understand that statement is probably a woman no matter how cold it is outside. The seaside town of East Hampton just loves to spit up weather changes where there should be salt water and sunshine. One minute it seems I was on a boat, getting engaged to my crime lord boyfriend that swears he’s not a crime lord, and stabbing to death my old mentor turned serial killer. The next, or so it seems, I’m here, freezing my ass off, climbing the mile-long staircase to one of the hundreds of overstated mansions clustered around the island, preparing to read the scene of a dead bride.
At the top of the steps, I reach the second layer of crime scene tape and the cop standing there—a tall, thin dude, who would only scare a chihuahua—no scratch that, chihuahuas are annoyingly loud and fearless. Let me start again. A tall thin dude, who would scare no one, greets me with, “Lilah fucking Love. What are you doing here?”
I don’t know him. If I’ve ever met him, I don’t remember him. I don’t try to remember him, not after that stupid question. “I heard they have those chocolate cupcakes with that perfect creamy icing on top,” I say all sweet, something I do well, despite what others might claim. I scowl. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing here? I’m a profiler. There’s a dead bride. Unless you’re standing guard at the wrong wedding?”
Now he scowls. “You’re such a bitch, Lilah.”
“I’m appalled that you just said that. I will have you know that I am a perfect fucking angel and just for that, you don’t get a cupcake.” I start to move away from him and hesitate. “Where are all the guests?”
“There’s no wedding or cupcakes,” he snaps. “There’s a woman wearing a wedding dress.”
“Because she already got married, she’s about to be married, or she likes to play Barbie at home, and takes it too far?”
He scowls and it’s the most remarkable thing about him aside from his uniform. The uniform used to be enough for me to respect and remember a person. Then I found out people like me used to wear the same one, too.
“I have no idea,” he says. “I just hold the yellow line.”
I don’t comment. There’s nothing else to say. I duck under the tape and head up the stairs of the fancy Hamptons mansion, called here by my brother, the police chief. He’s been trying to bond with me since burying a body for me, but it hasn’t worked. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me or most likely him. I’d call Andrew, and our late mother, the cherry blossoms of the family, while me and Dad are figs. A lot of people don’t know that wasps feed off figs and then get stuck inside and die.
Once I reach the front door and flash my badge at another uniform, I don’t even consider shedding my trench coat. I’m not staying. I pull on gloves and booties I’ve brought with me in my field bag at my hip and deal with yet another uniform. Rather painlessly for once, I’m past the tape. Once inside the towering foyer with a fancy chandelier above me, Andrew is charging toward me.
My brother is tall, with blond hair, and good looking enough to make his pukey tan-colored uniform look good and that’s saying a lot. Tonight though, he’s in jeans and a T-shirt that hugs lots of muscles. I guess I hadn’t noticed that big bro’s been working out. Samantha, the bimbo who fucked Kane when we were broken up and then who fucked Andrew, moved away. I wonder who the new girl is. It’s my sisterly duty to find out.
“She scowls,” Andrew greets, stopping in front of me. “And here I thought a murder would make Thanksgiving Eve.”
“It might. Did someone get it right and kill Pocher properly this time?”
“Not only is he alive,” he comments dryly, “I got a call on the way over here. He’s putting on a fundraiser mid-December for Dad for the Governor runoff in January. Dad wants us to attend.”
Of course, Andrew and I still haven’t talked about the elephant in the room: Pocher, a man close to our father, ordering Mom’s death. For now, I snort and change the subject. “Right. Whatever. I’m not even having Thanksgiving with him. I’m not attending a fundraiser. Back to the murder. What do I need to know?”
“Aside from the wedding dress and the timing of the murder, the victim was scheduled for a big New Year’s Eve wedding here on the island. She’s fresh. Time of death in the past two hours.”
“Who called it in?”
“Anonymous caller, muffled, male voice.”
“And?”
“And what?” he counters.
“That’s it? That’s all you have for me?”
“I’ve been tied up on another case. I called in the medical examiner and CSI. Now we have you.”
“So really this could be a simple murder, probably predictable and jealousy-driven. This sounds boring.”
“Only you would call murder boring, Lilah,” he grumbles, holding up a hand. “And I told you why you’re here. And don’t make a rebuttal. There are no coincidences. Isn’t that what you always say?”
I decide to do what I never do for anyone. I comfort him, but then he’s my brother, who just got rid of a body for me. “Pocher thinks the serial killer killed his brother,” I say, and then change to a distraction strategy. “Go have a whiskey or a woman or something. Who replaced that bitch Samantha?”
His eyes cut right and down. “Oh fuck. I thought the wicked witch moved away? She’s back, isn’t she? Or did she even leave at all?”
“Really, Lilah?” Andrew snaps. “We’re going at it here and now, at a c
rime scene?”
“That’s a yes to her being back or never really leaving,” I say. “Well, this is good news about dinner tomorrow. Now you and Kane can bond over fucking the same woman, and burying the same body.”
He scrubs his jaw and glares at me, big hands settling on his hips. “I need to deal with a couple of influential neighbors freaking out at this very moment. Officer North is lead on this case. He’s new and probably competent. Talk to him.”
“Probably?”
“Five days on the job, in from the city.”
“Home of the dirty, dirty boys,” I say, thinking of all the ways we’ve seen Pocher, and the Society, influence the NYPD. “Good hire, Andrew. And if this case is such a big deal, why send a five-day rookie to work the scene?”
“He’s not a rookie. He’s got experience, Lilah, and he’s also used to the likes of you.”
“Which means what?”
“A fucking nightmare.”
“And proud of it,” I comment.
He scowls. “Look at the crime scene.”
“I’ll look,” I say. “Then I’ll hand it over to the rookie and go home to watch a movie and eat Cheetos with Kane.”
His brow furrows. “It’s really hard to imagine Kane eating Cheetos.”
“It’s all about where you place the Cheetos.”
“Oh hell, Lilah. Too much information. I can’t take it.” He steps around me and toward the door, but I’m not done with him.
“If you marry her, make her wear a mask at the wedding so I can pretend she’s not the bitch we both know she is!”
He doesn’t even shoot me the finger. He just exits the house and leaves. It’s shocking he even said the word fuck. He’s so predictable. He’s so good, too good. How does he ever solve a crime? I don’t have that problem. No one would call me good. Ever. Not even Kane Mendez.
CHAPTER FOUR
My brother is rude enough to leave me hunting for a dead body by myself when most would say for the Love family, such a thing should be a family affair. But I handle it. I flag down one of the CSI guys, who points me through a squared archway. The fact that CSI is here, in from Hauppauge, a trip that with communication and travel would take at least two hours, and I was in the air only forty-five minutes ago, may or may not tell me that my brother hesitated before he called me. I’m not sure that tells me much about his motives, but I will find out. He can bet his ass I’ll climb inside that pretty little head of his and rip everything I need right out. Keeping him in line is my sisterly duty.
Setting aside Andrew for now, I enter what looks like a basic high-end den. The décor theme seems to be ridiculously expensive leather furnishings that look just like the less expensive alternative brand that in this town would be shunned around these parts.
The Hamptons is all about judgement.
This room is about judgment.
What it’s not is the keeper of the body. Voices lift from just beyond yet another archway and I begin following them. What hits me in that moment is my complete absence of anticipation. Not that long ago, the moments before I’d set foot in the presence of a dead body, adrenaline would surge with the certainty that death would soon consume me. That feeling is gone and I don’t even remember when that happened. For a moment, I’m back on that beach from years ago now, drugged and insane with emotion, stabbing my attacker as Kane tried to question him.
I changed that night. I tried to run from it, but I never had the chance. Maybe because I didn’t actually change at all. I simply lost the ability to fully contain what was already inside me. But that is for later. For now, I enter a large kitchen and hit the motherload.
Right there between the kitchen table and a granite island lies the deceased, a thirty-something woman in a wedding dress: brunette, obviously tall, even in a fetal position, with blood staining her mouth, neck, and the front of her dress.
I flash my badge at the two people standing over her: a tall, dark-haired man I age to about thirty-six, in a Officer’s uniform and a pretty, also thirty-something, blonde female.
“Special Agent Lilah Love,” I say, and I don’t always say the special. It just feels too special, but what the hell. “I’m here at Police Chief Love’s request,” I add.
“The big time Special Agent Love, profiler and sister to the police chief,” the man says. “Yes. We expected you.”
I glance at his name tag that reads North. So far I don’t hate him. “What do we know?” I ask, but I’m far more eager to let that woman on the floor talk to me than these two.
He motions for me to join him back in the den. In other words, I was too optimistic about not hating him. We’re about to play politics and egos. I really fucking hate politics and egos.
“Let’s not,” I say. “I have plans that don’t include staying long. I’m here as a favor. Tell me about the victim.”
His lips press together and he motions to the other room again. I sigh and just do it. I play the game, the one where he makes sure I know he has the bigger cock, even though I don’t have a cock at all. I back into the den and he’s right there, towering a good foot over me. “I’m wondering what you know that I don’t know,” he says. “Why are you in on this one?”
The wedding dress, I think. Or my brother doesn’t trust him. Actually, I’m not sure my brother even trusts me. “Did my brother warn you that I get along with dead people better than most officers?” I ask.
“He did, actually.”
“Then we can agree it’s in our best interests that I interact with the woman on the floor, not you. That said, let's get what we have to out of the way. What do we know about the victim?”
His lips tighten but he answers. “Emma Wells,” he says. “Thirty-eight-year-old interior designer. She and her husband, Gibson Wells, bought this house right after you moved to L.A. He’d become the ‘it’ accountant for the rich and famous. They’d been here six months, and he’d really just hit big in his career when he died of a heart attack at only forty-five.”
Young, I think, but more common than most want to believe. “How long ago was that?” I ask, because yes, I could guess based on when I left and returned, but you never guess or assume in police work. Too often expected timelines don’t connect.
“A year ago.”
“She moved on fast,” I comment. “Who’s she marrying?”
“Morgan Rockport,” he replies. “His dad is Barry Rockport. He was a big banking executive before he passed a few years ago.” Morgan isn’t familiar, but Barry stirs a memory I can’t quite catch. For now, I focus on the more important Rockport. “What else do we know about Morgan?” I ask.
“Morgan apparently went to some prep school and then Harvard. And now he’s an attorney for the rich and famous. Yes, there is a theme here, but as you know, perhaps irrelevant, as it’s a common one in East Hampton.”
I still don’t know how I know Morgan Rockport, but I move on. For now. “Where is Rockport now?”
“San Francisco on business. We haven’t been able to reach him. Agent Love—”
“Why’d you leave a city of opportunity to come to a small town?”
“I left the city of corruption to work with your brother,” he says and adds, “He’s a good man.”
“And the son of the future governor?” I challenge.
There’s a flash of something in his eyes I can’t quite identify and he says, “If he wins.”
“Do you know my father?”
His lips press together. He does that a lot. It’s like a poker tell. Something I won’t like is coming. Something he doesn’t want to tell me. Or maybe he needs some Chapstick. “I was on his security detail for six months.”
It’s definitely a poker tell.
“Of course you were,” I say, and that look is back in his eyes, the one I can’t quite identify.
“Officer North,” someone says from behind me. “We need you.”
He lifts a hand over my shoulder. “I’ll be
right there,” he calls out, but his attention is on me. “I respect your father and your brother. I’m not sure what to make of you.”
“Don’t you?” I challenge.
He studies me long and hard and then mumbles, “I’ll be back,” and steps around me.
I rotate and stare after him and decide I still don’t actually hate him, which surprises me. That’s rare. But something is off with him.
CHAPTER FIVE
I don’t love obvious moves, but my next move is pretty darn obvious. I walk back into the kitchen.
The pretty blonde woman is squatting next to the body, intently studying the victim’s neck. She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t notice me, which works just fine. My attention is on the woman sprawled on the floor, who can no longer speak, but she can tell us a story. The would-be bride, I don’t know which as of yet. Notably though is the fact that’s she’s in an extravagant dress, with sheer lace and little roses, with not a stroke of makeup on. There’s a bottle of water open, on its side, drained out, just like the woman we can assume held that bottle. Or it could have been someone else.
“Agent Love.” The blonde woman has noticed me and pops to her feet. “You’re back. I’m Danica Day, the new deputy medical examiner from Suffolk county.”
“And your name is Danica Day,” I say flatly.
“Yes.” Her spine stiffens defensively. “It is.”
“Let me guess, it’s a stage name and you want to be an actress.”
“Actually,” she bristles, “I come from a long line of medical professionals. My mother and father are surgeons. My sister is an OBGYN.”
“But you came here to be an actress.”
“I didn’t. I modeled, but—”
“But now you see dead people, right?” I say dryly. “You’re too pretty to do this job. Go back to modeling.” I kneel next to the body, missing Beth right about now, who would be here if she wasn’t still in Paris, playing footsie with one of Kane’s men. He was protecting her when the Umbrella Man, Roger, targeted her. Now they’re just having fun. And I’m searching for the source of the blood.
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