“This is Detective Lucien Match with the VPD,” he announced as he gave the knob a light twist. “I’m coming in slowly. Jim or Juanita, if you’re here, now would be a good time to say so.”
Raven waited for him to add that he was armed, or something to that effect. But he said nothing about a weapon, and she realized belatedly that it was probably because he wasn’t carrying one. Not unless he had it magically stowed inside his jogging gear. And why was he there in athletic apparel, anyway? He wasn’t exactly dressed for police work. It was another belated realization. And possibly an important one.
Raven’s concern spiked, and she started to comment, but Lucien spoke first.
“Stick close behind me,” he said over his shoulder.
Her relief at not being left behind overrode her worry for a second, silencing her. And the pause was just long enough that Lucien had time to swing the door open. But the alleviation only lasted as long as it took for Raven to catch a glimpse of the entryway. Signs of a struggle were obvious. An umbrella stand lay on its side, the contents strewn over the floor. A coat tree had met the same fate, and its base was actually cracked, leaving several jagged edges sticking up. Glass littered the tile, but it was impossible to say what, exactly, had broken. It could’ve come partially from the shattered French doors on the opposite side of the foyer. But the larger, glittery pieces looked like something else. Whatever it was, nothing about the scene was good.
Lucien’s posture grew stiffer, and he put his arms out—as though Raven was going to attempt to run past.
Or maybe like he’s going to use his body as a shield, she thought with a shiver.
She hated the idea. But she wouldn’t put it past him to try. He was doggedly heroic like that. No one knew it better than Raven. And she wouldn’t forgive herself if he sacrificed himself.
“Lucien,” she whispered. “I think—”
Her words cut off as a small, barely discernible cry lifted from somewhere ahead. Lucien—who’d turned his head her way when she’d said his name—jerked his attention forward again.
“It’s her!” Raven said, grabbing at his arm. “It’s Juanita.”
“We can’t be sure,” he replied.
“I am sure. And if you don’t yell for her, I will,” she warned.
“That’s not how this works,” he said. “I’m not just urging caution for fun. You think I wanted to come out here like this? I’m supposedly on a vacation, but this morning I got called out because—”
“Because what?”
But there was another muted sob, and Raven cared less about an answer and more about action. She was a-hundred-percent sure the sound had come from the caretaker’s wife. The fear of not being able to help—please, God, don’t let it happen like that again—overwhelmed her common sense, and now she did rush ahead. Lucien tried to stop her, but she ducked under his arm and darted forward to push through the broken French doors on the other side of the small space. The big man hissed out a curse, and his feet thumped on the floor as he gave chase. But Raven was quick, and she knew where she was headed.
The layout was a touch unusual. A hazard of the building conversion and the addition. But Raven moved without hesitation. She took a left in the T-shaped hall—going to the right would’ve led to the attached greenhouse—and slammed through the swinging door. On the other side of it were two more doors. The first—the one that led directly into the caretaker’s living quarters—was closed. The second—which led to the main office—was not only open, but also hung awkwardly from its hinges.
Heart thumping, she paused. “Juanita?”
“Raven? Is that you?” came the wobbly-voiced reply. “I’m in here.”
Both relieved to hear Juanita answer and also worried about what she’d else find, Raven stepped forward. But she didn’t make it all the way to the door before Lucien appeared at the end of the hall, his expression dark.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he growled. “I don’t remember you being this reckless.”
In spite of the circumstances—and in spite of the fact that he was right, too—his tone made Raven bristle. Three years ago, he might’ve known her better than anyone else on the planet. But he’d left. And she’d had to pick up the rest of the pieces on her own.
“People change,” she replied stiffly, spinning toward the broken door.
Ignoring Lucien’s continued protest, she stepped into the room. And what she found was both better and worse than what she’d anticipated. There was no evidence of a body, which flooded her with a relief so strong that her eyes watered. But the state of the room was frighteningly disastrous. Books and papers were scattered everywhere. The desk had been flipped. And an ominously crimson substance was slashed across the wall.
She heard Lucien’s indrawn breath, and then she heard the beep of his phone, followed by a reel-off of official sounding numbers and letters. But Raven’s primary focus was the woman who sat in wide office chair in the corner of the room. She had a shell-shocked expression on her lined face, her gray hair was a wild mess, her hands were wringing in her lap. There were streaks of red on the front of her cream-colored blouse, and she wore only one shoe.
Raven hurried to her side and knelt to take her hand. “Juanita. Are you hurt? Tell me where.”
The older woman shook her head. “No. It’s not me. It’s—”
Her voice broke, and Raven knew it was about her husband. Before she could stop it, her gaze flicked toward the red walls. An all-over body chill made her shake.
Oh, God. It’s blood.
It had to be. There was nothing else with quite than hue. But there was so much of it. How could there possibly be that much? She could only think of one way to get it, and her stomach churned to even consider it.
She had to force herself to speak in a calm voice.
“Where is he, Juanita? Where’s Jim?” she asked softly.
Juanita blinked, her dark eyes filling with tears. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. He’s just...gone.”
Raven breathed out. The other woman went on, describing how she’d stepped out for a few minutes and come back to find the place like this. Raven tried to listen. She tried to focus. It was harder than she wanted it to be, because a dozen bad memories kept trying to float to the surface, and it took real concentration to shove them all down. And even with all the effort, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this moment had something to do with her and her past.
People get broken into all the time, she told herself. It’s unreasonable to think this is about you.
The reassurance might’ve helped a little if not for three things. The first being the flowers on her parents’ gravesite. The second being the poorly disguised worry in Lucien’s voice as he suggested they find a more secure space to wait for backup. And the third being that when she lifted her eyes again, the crimson on the wall finally came into focus, and she realized it wasn’t just random slashes...it was words, too. Small and far more precise than their suspected medium should’ve allowed. Disturbingly, it looked almost like they’d been painted with a brush, and the lettering spelled out a sinister message.
A LIFE IS OWED TO ME. SO I’LL TAKE ONE EVERY DAY UNTIL YOU GIVE ME YOURS.
And she knew that it was intended for her.
Chapter 3
As Lucien paced the length of the small kitchen yet again, he cursed himself for not spitting out the truth when he’d had a moment to earlier. It should’ve been the first thing he’d said, regardless as how his and Raven’s reunion had gone.
Should’ve taken one look into her eyes and announced it. Be a hell of a lot better than this crap.
She hadn’t had much to say as he’d done a fast perimeter check. She’d been quiet during his statement retrieval from Juanita Rickson, too. Even when he’d quickly explained that it was best to write it down while it was still fresh in the older wo
man’s mind, all Raven had done was nod. She was silent now, too, except for the soothing things she murmured to Juanita.
So she’s not really silent at all, he thought. She’s just giving you the silent treatment.
Neither of them had brought up the message scrawled on the wall, and what it likely meant. What he didn’t want it to mean, but what would undoubtedly turn out to be the truth. Lucien’s mind wavered between wanting to think about it, and not wanting to acknowledge it at all.
Focus on getting through these moments, he told himself. Deal with the rest—the message included—later.
Except that if he could’ve done anything he wanted to, he would’ve chosen to pull Raven outside to confess the truth right that second. He would’ve taken her away and hidden her from sight. Of course, even if there’d been a chance that she’d leave Juanita’s side, Lucien’s police training wouldn’t have allowed him to leave the caretaker’s wife unattended. Not only was she visibly—and understandably—on edge, but there was also no way to know if the culprit—yes, he was sticking with that generic term until he had proof positive that it was Georges Hanes—was still lurking nearby.
“Lucien.”
Raven’s voice almost made him jump. He paused in his pacing and turned his attention her way, glad that she was addressing him directly.
“Yes?” he said.
She nodded pointedly at the empty chair at the table. “Sit down. Have some tea.”
He eyed the mug that already sat in front of Juanita, then started to open his mouth to remind Raven that he was a coffee man. Which she knew. Then he realized her intention was to get him to cease his pacing.
He cursed himself again, this time for his lack of professionalism. He was generally even tempered. He’d even heard himself called implacable on more than one occasion.
But this is different.
Georges Hanes and Raven herself made it different.
The first few weeks they’d spent together had been hell. What Hanes had done to her...what he’d left her with...without...it had nearly broken her. It was Lucien who dragged her out of it. He listened to her cry in her sleep. Comforted her when she was inconsolable. Held her. Cooked her meals, for God’s sake. Plus, a hundred other things that he’d never—as a cop or as man—thought he’d be doing for someone. The idea of seeing her go through it all again filled him with teeth-gnashing anger. She’d made it once, but a second? He didn’t see it happening.
“Lucien.” Raven’s tone was just barely shy of sharp this time.
He realized he’d started pacing again, and when he looked toward the two women, he saw that Juanita’s face had a hint of concern on it, and it was definitely for him. It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so wrong. Muttering an apology, he sank down into the empty chair. He told himself to relax, at least a little, and dragged the mug of tea closer. If nothing else, the heat provided a focal point. He flexed his fingers on the ceramic.
“Shouldn’t be too much longer until the backup arrives,” he said a little lamely.
Unexpectedly, Raven’s hand came up to rest on his for a moment. The touch—gentle but deliberate—was soothing, and a bit of his tension eased. Ironic, considering that he was so damn worried about her.
He wondered if she had any idea about the feelings he’d buried. They seemed very, very close to the surface now. Maybe they were even on his face. God, he hoped not.
Thankfully, he was saved from dwelling on it any more. At least for the moment. Sirens came to life in the distance, and got rapidly closer. From there, things moved quickly. The small house came to life in the busy, crime-solving way that Lucien was accustomed to.
As the work got underway, he made sure not to insinuate himself into his colleagues’ investigation. Though he stayed close—available to assist with their questions about what he’d seen—he was careful to play the role of witness rather than cop. He pretended not to tense as they paid extra care in photographing the crimson letters, and blocked out their whispered suppositions about the words. The only bit of interference he ran was when he pulled his boss aside to ask that Raven not be told about Georges Hanes. He still wanted to be the one to do it. Sergeant Gray agreed, so Lucien simply rode through as an observer, watching the team work through the scene.
An on-duty detective came in and took over where he’d left off, questioning Juanita more thoroughly than he’d done, using his notes as reference.
A couple of uniformed officers and a scent-tracking dog explored the interior and the exterior. Unsurprisingly, they found nothing and everything at the same time. The whole area was marked with Jim Rickson’s scent. Yet there was no specific path leading anywhere.
An ambulance arrived on scene with the others, and the paramedics examined the caretaker’s wife. She had a meltdown while they were taking her blood pressure, and they administered a sedative. The medical professionals decided it would be in her best interest to speak to someone at the hospital. They took her away, lights on, sirens off.
Two forensics officials got there shortly after that, and they began their process. Photographing. Sampling. Note taking. They were methodical in their technical, all-important, scientific realm.
Through it all, Lucien kept up his calm front. But all he really wanted to do was stick by Raven’s side. Or to be more accurate, he just wanted to remove her from the whole thing. So when his boss made the suggestion that he take her away from the scene for a break, he jumped on the chance.
Once they were moving along in his car, though, he found himself wanting another few minutes of non-Hanes-related conversation. His earlier need to just spring the truth on her seemed needlessly abrupt.
Better to ease into it.
“Doing okay over there?” He paused, realized it was a bit of a ridiculous question considering the circumstances, then added, “Relatively speaking, I mean.”
She exhaled, then nodded. “I’m in one piece.”
“The team will take good care of Juanita,” he promised. “The VPD has some of the best officials around.”
“I know.”
The two-word reply was loaded with something heavier, but Lucien couldn’t pinpoint quite what it was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Not right at that moment, anyway.
He cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. “So...the records say that you moved recently.”
There was a brief hesitation before she answered, and he sneaked a look her way. Her expression was puzzled. Like she was thinking, Small talk? Really? After another second, though, she shook her head and let out a tiny sigh, accepting it.
“Yes,” she said. “I got a cat.”
It wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. “What?”
“A cat.”
“A cat?”
“Yes,” she said again, this time with a little smile. “Goes meow, is covered in fluff. Purrs and knocks over my flowers on purpose. Actually, he’s kind of a jerk, now that I think about it.”
He couldn’t fight a chuckle. “Glad he was worth a complete move.”
“He kind of was, though,” she replied. “He finally got me out my co-op lease. And you know I hated that place more than a little.”
He did know. She disliked the high-density housing location. Her property-management company was terrible at staying on top of maintenance. The only thing that had kept her there was the five-year buy-in she’d taken just before everything in her life got turned upside down. Moving early would’ve forfeited the investment. But admitting just how well Lucien remembered every detail would only draw unnecessary attention to his feelings, and probably also bring things back to the topic he was currently avoiding.
So he cleared his throat again. “And work? You quit the reception job, I heard.”
It was actually the last thing he’d found out before realizing that the tabs he kept on her were always going to be more than professional
.
“That’s right,” she said. “I went back to school. Grief counseling.”
“Interesting work?”
“I like it, and I think I’m pretty good at it.”
He could picture it, actually. She’d be able to use her own experience as a solid foundation for helping others. He liked the idea that she could do that. Bring some good out of the bad.
They talked like that for a few more minutes, all of the conversation basic. Steered toward keeping things on the surface. He told her a few anecdotes about recent arrests—the same ones he saved for entertaining strangers at parties. She chatted about school, and said how she was surprised to find out she enjoyed learning, then asked about his career. He admitted to passing on an opportunity for promotion because it would’ve taken him out of the province, and he didn’t want to leave the West Coast. It was a good conversation. One that felt nearly normal. He even enjoyed it a little, even as he acknowledged just how badly he’d missed the simple sound of her voice. And every time things threatened to get more serious, or skirted around the past—which would inevitably lead to the Kitsilano Killer—Lucien very carefully turned things light again. Except when a slight lull hung in the exchange, Raven let out a small sigh, and her eyes fixed out the front of the car, and he realized he hadn’t been fooling her at all. Her next words confirmed it.
“You kind of suck at this, Lucien.” In spite of its content, the statement held no rancor. “Even if all that back there hadn’t just happened, and even if I couldn’t tell that we’re headed toward our old safe house, you still wouldn’t be able to just pretend we’re two old friends, catching up.”
His hands tightened on the wheel. He thought about arguing with her. Or pleading ignorance. The he thought better of it, and shook his head instead.
“I know,” he replied. “Never been very good at that fake it till you make it stuff.”
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