“No. I thought I saw someone in the yard, but it must have been my imagination playing tricks on me,” she told him, hiding the knife behind her back.
Doug strolled toward her, putting his foot on the first step before he froze at the sound of Buddy’s low growl. He cleared his throat, trying to pretend he wasn’t embarrassed by the dog’s overt dislike. “I wouldn’t be too sure it was your imagination. I thought I saw someone peeking through your front window earlier in the day,” he said. “Do you want me to do a circle of the block to see if there are any strangers hanging around?”
She shivered, giving a shake of her head. It would be crazy to leap to the conclusion that it was the Butcher. The killer was too skilled to be creeping around her house and peeking through her window. He would have to realize it would attract the attention of her neighbors, who were mostly elderly and nosy enough to keep an eye on what was going on around them.
Still, she didn’t want Doug getting himself killed.
“No. I might give the cops a call later,” she assured him.
Doug paused, as if trying to think of some excuse to keep the conversation going. “You could come to my house and give them a call if you feel uneasy being alone.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” She reached down to pat Buddy’s head. “I have plenty of protection.”
Another awkward pause before Doug forced a smile. “Well, if you need anything, just holler out the window and I’ll come running.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“I like to be neighborly.”
“Thanks,” Remi muttered, turning to herd her dog into the kitchen and sliding the door behind her. “Yikes.”
She shuddered, turning the lock before she busied herself with feeding Buddy and then heading into the bathroom to take a hot bath. It’d been a long day. And the night promised to be even longer.
Pulling on a pair of fuzzy PJ bottoms and a faded T-shirt, Remi braided her damp hair. She was at the point of deciding whether she intended to eat dinner or crawl into bed with a good book when there was a knock on her door.
Warily, Remi made her way to the living room. Buddy was already at the door barking, and Remi wished she had circled through the kitchen to get her knife. Instead, she held her phone in her hand. She punched in the numbers 9-1-1, her thumb hovering over the Call button.
Inching closer to the door, she flipped on the porch light. Then, leaning forward, she peered through the peephole she’d had installed shortly after she’d moved in.
“Ash,” she breathed, her knees going weak at the sight of his finely sculpted face and the dark curls that had been tousled by the breeze.
A part of her wanted to be annoyed by his uninvited arrival. He’d already disrupted her day. Now he was no doubt intending to disrupt her night. A larger part of her, however, was fiercely glad not to be alone.
Clearly the fear that someone had been creeping around the house had freaked her out more than she wanted to acknowledge.
Chapter Four
Remi slid back the dead bolt and pulled open the door. Her brows lifted as she took in the boxes he held in his hands.
“What’s going on?”
His gaze skimmed over her casual clothing before moving to Buddy, who’d strangely halted his barking. Almost as if he sensed that Ash was a friend. Then he returned his attention to her wary expression. “Can I come in?”
“Come in or move in?” she demanded.
His lips twitched. “I think you’ll be interested in what I brought with me.”
“Fine.” She stepped back, allowing him to walk through the doorway. It was too cold to argue on the front porch. Plus, that sense of relief was still helping to banish the fear that was lodged in the pit of her stomach. She pointed toward the open living room that was filled with furniture chosen for comfort rather than style. “You can use the coffee table for your boxes.”
“Thanks.” With fluid strides, he was moving to lower the boxes on the low table, along with a large backpack. Then he straightened and turned in a slow circle. “This is your grandparents’ house, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, they moved to Florida three years ago.”
“We came here for Thanksgiving when we were dating,” he said. “It looks different.”
She tried hard not to remember how she’d snuggled close to Ash on the couch while her grandparents insisted they sit through hours of home movies. Ash hadn’t complained once, and her grandmother had pulled her aside to assure her that Ash Marcel was a “keeper.”
He had been, but that hadn’t prevented her from pushing him away.
She swallowed a sigh. “Not really. I pulled up the carpet to expose the hardwood and painted the walls,” she said.
He released a sharp laugh. “It’s a lot more than I’ve done.”
She didn’t want to think about him in his own house. Perhaps he was sharing it with some beautiful professor who hadn’t retreated into a brittle shell.
Remi’s heart twisted and she reached down to lay her hand on Buddy’s head. He was studying Ash with more curiosity than distrust, but she needed his solid comfort.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
Holding her gaze, Ash slid off his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair before he settled on the couch. “To bargain with you.”
“Bargain?”
He patted the cushion next to him. “Have a seat.”
Her heart jerked and skidded before it lurched back to a steady rhythm. She wanted to sit next to him. She wanted to feel the heat of his body seeping through her. And catch the warm scent of his skin.
That was why she deliberately took a chair near the bookshelves that also served as a TV stand.
“Should I be scared?” she asked, keeping her tone deliberately light.
He studied her for a long moment, as if considering his words. “Do you trust me?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
It was true. There was no one in the world she trusted more than Ash.
Something that might have been satisfaction smoldered in his eyes, but as he leaned forward, his expression was grim.
“I think the Butcher is back in Chicago.”
She wasn’t shocked by his words. She’d had a few hours to absorb the fact that a young woman had turned up in the morgue with her throat slit and the Butcher’s mark on her breast.
“So do I.”
He continued to hold her gaze. “And I think he’s obsessed with you.”
She frowned. She was willing to accept that the Butcher was back, but she wasn’t convinced that he was obsessed with her personally. Most serial killers chose their prey for a specific purpose. The Butcher had a thing for dark-haired women with green eyes.
“Because he killed a woman who happened to look like me?”
“Because she looked exactly like you.”
She made a sound of impatience. “So what are you saying? Do you think he saw her and mistook her for me?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not entirely sure. I just know I’m worried.”
A tiny spark of warmth flared to life in the center of her heart. It’d been a long time since she’d felt as if someone cared about her. Really and truly cared.
Her mother loved her, of course, but Liza Harding-Walsh found it difficult to display her emotions.
“I don’t know why he’d be obsessed with me,” she muttered.
“You’re the one who got away,” he said with a blunt simplicity. “His failure has no doubt been festering for the past five years.”
She pressed a hand to her stomach, mentally willing herself not to return to that dark, horrifying night.
“What about your bargain?” she demanded.
“I want to stay here until the Butcher is caught,” he told her, his expression hardening. “Or dead.”
“Here?” It took her a second to process what he was saying. Then her heart started doing that crazy jerking and skidding again. She forced herself to t
ake a deep breath. “Can’t you stay with your mother?”
He gave a dramatic shudder. “Various family members have already started to descend for the holidays, and unfortunately, they’ll no doubt stay until after Nate’s wedding at the end of next month. They tend to be like roaches who refuse to leave once they’ve invaded the place. Trust me, the house is filled to the rafters.”
“What about one of your brothers? I’m sure they have their own places with spare bedrooms.”
“They snore.”
“Then what about a hotel?”
“Too expensive. I’m just a poor teacher.”
She flattened her lips to keep them from curving into a smile. No one could be more charming than Ash Marcel when he put his mind to it. And no matter how hard she might pretend to be indifferent, she inwardly accepted that she was just as susceptible as she’d always been.
With an effort, she squashed the unnerving realization.
“I’m not an idiot. I know you think you need to protect me,” she said.
He shrugged without apology. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”
She glanced toward the large window that overlooked the front yard. “It’s no longer your job.”
She thought she heard his breath hiss between clenched teeth. Was he angered by her words?
“It will always be my job,” he told her in soft tones.
She flinched. “Because of Dad.”
“Because of us,” he insisted.
The soul-deep yearning she kept firmly locked deep inside her threatened to crack open. She gave a sharp shake of her head. No. Not now.
With an effort, she forced herself to turn to meet his gaze. “I appreciate your concern, Ash, but—”
He interrupted her assurance that she was just fine on her own. “I’m not done.”
She heaved a sigh. He could be as stubborn as a mule. “Okay. What do I get out of letting you stay here?”
He arched a brow, as if puzzled by her question. “I don’t think you understand, Remi. Your reward is having me as a guest.”
She made a choked sound. “Really? And what do you get out of the deal?”
“Your help in tracking down the Butcher.”
She stared at him in genuine surprise. He was asking for her assistance in looking for the killer?
“Are you being serious?” she rasped.
“Never more so.” His voice was somber, assuring her that he truly intended to ask for her help.
“But the last time you wouldn’t even discuss the case with me,” she reminded him.
He lifted his hands. “It was my job. I wasn’t allowed to discuss it with anyone.”
She studied him. He wasn’t giving her the full truth. Ash had never gossiped about private police matters, no matter what the case. But she suspected her father had been insistent that he keep his mouth shut about the Butcher. Her father had always tried to protect Remi from the ugliness of his job.
“And now?” she pressed.
“Now I’m a private citizen. I can do whatever the hell I want.”
She stiffened, struck by a sudden fear. “If you’re hoping I remember something about that night, you’re going to be disappointed.”
His eyes darkened to a deep indigo at the mention of her kidnapping. They’d both been scarred by that night.
“I know you can’t force the memories. Either they’ll return or they won’t,” he said.
She’d braced herself for the predictable sympathy. For months after the kidnapping—and her father’s death—she’d been smothered in pity. Thankfully, Ash seemed to remember just how much she hated it. His voice was brisk, almost indifferent.
She studied him in confusion. “Then how can I help?”
He reached out to touch the boxes he’d stacked on the coffee table. “I brought the notes your father and I made during the investigation. I hope we can go through them together. You might see something we missed.”
She released her breath on a shaky sigh. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how desperate she was for an opportunity to actively search for the Butcher.
For the past five years, she’d been treading water, as if she was caught in a quagmire she couldn’t escape. How could she move forward when the past continued to hold her hostage?
Ash was offering her the chance to break free of her prison.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He gave a slow nod, clearly sensing the emotions churning through her. “I also thought we might take a drive tomorrow.”
She took a second to gather her scattered thoughts. She didn’t want Ash regretting his offer to include her in the investigation.
“Drive where?” There. That was a perfectly intelligent question.
“To Bailey.”
“Bailey?” The name didn’t mean anything to her. “Is it a store?”
“No, it’s a little farm town south of here.”
“Why would we go there?”
“Angel Conway.”
She sent him an impatient glance. Was he being deliberately vague? “Who’s that?”
“The woman who was killed,” he clarified. “She lived in Bailey.”
Oh. Now she understood. “Is that where she was murdered?”
He shook his head. “No. Her body was found in Jameson Park. The cops believe that’s where she died.”
Remi considered his words. “How did Angel Conway end up in a park in Chicago?”
“I think he took her there.”
Remi’s stomach threatened to revolt as a jagged image of walking through darkness, a sense of evil looming behind her, flickered through her mind before disappearing as swiftly as it formed. She didn’t bother to try to hold on to it. Her memories from the night she was kidnapped were like a shattered window. She might be able to grasp a fragment for a few seconds, but it was impossible to put them together.
Belatedly realizing that Ash was regarding her with a frown, Remi rose to her feet.
“I’ll get the spare room ready,” she said, her tone brisk.
The last thing she wanted was Ash worried that she couldn’t handle the investigation.
His gaze lingered on her face before he rose to his feet. “Have you had dinner?”
“No.”
“I’ll order something.” He pulled his phone from the front pocket of his slacks. “Pizza okay?”
“I can cook,” she offered.
Ash flashed a quick smile, no doubt well aware that her cupboards were bare. Her lack of culinary skills had been a running joke between them.
“Pizza it is.”
* * *
Jax grimaced as he tossed away the last of his salad and headed out of the kitchenette just down the hall from his office. Getting old sucked. There was a time when he could eat two bacon cheeseburgers, a plate of fries, and polish it off with a slab of cake without putting on a pound. Now he couldn’t walk past a pastry display without his belt tightening.
What he really needed was to return to his morning jogs, he wryly acknowledged. How long had it been since he’d last exercised on a regular basis? A year ago? Two?
He swallowed a sigh. His mother was right. He was too old to be a bachelor. Living alone meant that he didn’t have any reason to stop working at a reasonable hour. No one cared if he was home for dinner, or if he made plans for his weekend. It also meant that he didn’t take care of himself like he should.
Too many takeout meals eaten at work and not enough time on the treadmill.
He shook his head, dismissing his bout of self-pity. It wouldn’t matter if he had a wife and ten kids waiting for him at home; he wasn’t going anywhere for a while.
The Butcher was back, and if Ash was right and the bastard was hunting Remi Walsh, Jax’s every waking minute was going to be spent chasing down leads. Eventually, one of them would lead him to the killer.
Refusing to contemplate the thought of failure, he rounded the partition wall and came to a sharp halt. His eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of th
e man who was leaning over his desk, flipping through the tall stack of files.
What the hell?
He moved forward, watching as the man abruptly straightened and whirled to face him.
Bruce O’Reilly.
The detective was a year younger than Jax, although he looked like he was a decade older. He had a big, square head with dark hair he kept buzzed next to his skull. His skin was ruddy and sagged near his jaws, giving him the appearance of a bulldog. His body was equally square, with a growing paunch that threatened to bust through his white shirt.
“Jax.” The man pushed his hands in his pockets, trying to act as if he hadn’t been nosing through Jax’s desk.
“O’Reilly.” Jax glanced toward his desk. “Are you looking for something?”
O’Reilly folded his arms over his chest. “Just curious.”
“About what?”
“I heard you caught the Jane Doe from the park.”
Jax shrugged. “She’s not a Jane Doe. We have an ID.”
O’Reilly barely listened. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in the identity of the murder victim. “The rumor is that you’re claiming it was the work of the Butcher.”
Jax tensed as he felt prickles of unease dance over his skin. O’Reilly wasn’t just being nosy. He was here with a purpose.
“I’m not claiming anything,” Jax said with complete honesty. He wanted to keep a lid on his Butcher theory. The longer he could go without the press breathing down his neck, the better. Unfortunately, he needed to coordinate between several units, which meant it was inevitable that gossip would spread. “I’m just working the case.”
“Was her throat slit?” O’Reilly demanded.
“I don’t have the coroner’s report yet.”
O’Reilly glared at him. Something that would have been a lot more intimidating if he wasn’t four inches shorter than Jax.
“Don’t be an ass.”
“The only one being an ass is you, O’Reilly.”
“Just like your brother.”
Jax chuckled at the muttered words. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t,” O’Reilly snapped. “If he’d listened to me, he would still be a detective.”
The Intended Victim Page 5