In the dim bathroom, Wyatt cleaned up as quickly as he could. He didn’t need a light to see that Everly was important. What was keeping him in Pleasant Pines? He loved his old farmhouse, but he’d never completely unpacked. He didn’t have a job. Or friends. Or any other connection to the community.
He’d used Gus as his first excuse, but Gus was a good dog. He could adjust to living somewhere new. Maybe a change was just what Wyatt needed—and it made sense that Everly was the catalyst for his new beginning. Barefoot, he padded back to his bedroom. Everly was lying on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was deep. He reached for her shoulder, ready to give a slight shake and tell her that perhaps he could give Chicago a try.
Yet, after losing her brother, being attacked, helping him discover Larry’s identity and then finding the killer dead, well, Wyatt knew she was exhausted. He got in the bed beside her. Settling in, with her back nestled into his chest, Wyatt draped his arm around her waist. Everly stirred in her sleep, reaching for his hand.
There was something about lying next to Everly, with her in his arms and their hands joined. It was an emotion—not happiness, it wasn’t anything as sentimental or simple as joy or even bliss. It was like the calm that followed a storm. Then, Wyatt knew. With Everly, he’d become content. In the morning, he’d tell her he wanted to talk about a future together.
Chapter 12
Wyatt quickly fell into a deep sleep. In a haze-filled dream, he stood before a closed door. Pushing it open, Wyatt found Larry’s corpse hanging from the ceiling of an industrial kitchen. The body gently swayed, as if in a light breeze. The piss stain on Larry’s jeans was still damp. The eyes were closed. The room was silent, save for the slow and steady creak of the rope as it rubbed against the rafters.
He approached the body. Reaching out, his fingers inched closer and closer to the dead man’s mottled and swollen hand. Like a viper, the hand struck, closing Wyatt’s wrist in an unbreakable grip. He tried to pull away, but the icy hand was too strong.
Wyatt looked at the corpse. The eyes that had been shut were now open. “It was all right there for you to find,” admonished the corpse. “How could you have missed everything? Will you even bother to look now?”
Wyatt was frantic to escape death’s grip. He twisted and pulled. Nothing. He pried one finger up and then another, until he finally burst free and stumbled, slamming into a set of metal shelves. Pots and pans rained down, before clattering to the floor. The clanging morphed into a ringing and Wyatt woke in his own bed. He pulled a shaking hand down his face and realized it was slick with cold sweat.
Everly was still in bed beside him. Her hands were tucked under her cheek and he stroked the side of her arm, wanting nothing more than to wake her with a kiss.
The ringing came again. But this was no dream. He cursed as he threw back the covers, letting in the cold.
Everly stirred in her sleep. Wyatt grabbed his pants off the floor and fished the phone from a pocket. He swiped the call open and stepped onto the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Hello?” He held the phone up with his shoulder as he put on his jeans.
“Wyatt, this is Davis. I’m sorry to be calling so early, but I turned up some information and I thought you’d want to know right away.”
“Sure,” said Wyatt. He descended the stairs and turned on a light over his desk. He pulled a pad of paper and a pen toward him. “Go ahead.”
“I went to the apartment complex and there was a long-time resident who remembered Larry. The man said that his cat disappeared not long after Larry moved in. He always suspected Larry of doing something to the cat—that’s why he remembered the name and photo I showed him.”
Wyatt said, “Is he sure that it didn’t get hit by a car or wander off and become a coyote’s dinner?”
“Even though he suspected Larry, he knew that something else might’ve happened to his cat. He got another kitty. One day he sees Larry trying to coax the cat from beneath a bush, and then that cat disappeared, too.”
“Cruelty to animals is a hallmark of a serial killer’s progression,” Wyatt said.
“That’s exactly what I thought. So, I went to the manager of the complex and asked if I could search the place.”
Obviously, Davis had been given permission and found something interesting, otherwise he wouldn’t be calling before dawn. The line had gone silent. Wyatt waited a beat. “You still there?”
“I work homicide in Las Vegas. I’ve seen stuff. Weird stuff. Stuff I can’t unsee.”
“I can well imagine,” said Wyatt. And honestly, he could. He used to be a profiler for the FBI, after all. “What’s got you so shaken?”
“There was a compartment hidden behind the wall. It was full of dead cats—there were a dozen of them, at least.”
“Cats? Even boarded up, they’d stink while decomposing. Wouldn’t someone notice the smell?”
“That’s just it, they’d been mummified. As in full-blown Pharaohs-of-Egypt-in-the-Pyramids kind of mummified. But there was more. We found a trophy from each of the Las Vegas victims with the cats.”
Davis kept talking, detailing all the items he’d found. Wyatt was hardly paying attention. He’d stopped breathing, and his pulse echoed in his ears. How many lives had Larry taken? And Wyatt, the supposed expert, had never suspected him of a thing.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Wyatt said, interrupting Davis. “Larry Walker is dead. We went to arrest him, and he’d hanged himself. He left a note confessing to some killings, although he wasn’t specific. More than the confession, he had half of several two-dollar bills in his wallet. Five of them match those found with the men who died in Pleasant Pines.”
“Dead?” said Davis. “I hadn’t seen anything on the news or heard about it from my superiors.”
“The local sheriff wants to keep the whole case under wraps until he contacts all the families. I imagine that the feds will get involved eventually and take over the case.”
“Then have whoever ends up in charge call me. I still don’t have an ID on Larry Walker’s roommate.”
Most serial killers were loners, needing privacy to carry out their murderous activities. That fact struck Wyatt as more than a little odd. Then again, it was another peculiarity to add to a long list of things that didn’t make sense.
“He had a roommate?” Wyatt scribbled the word on the pad of paper and circled it several times.
“He did,” Davis said. “He lived with a female.”
“Are you sure?”
“The neighbor with the cat remembers a woman living with Larry.”
“What about the complex manager?”
“She’s new to the job, so Larry’s time as a resident was before her arrival.”
“What’s your sense about the roommate? Was the woman an accomplice? A victim?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Davis.
“Can you do me two favors? First, don’t mention what I told you about Larry being dead—or what we suspect about his serial killings.”
“Suspect?” scoffed Davis. “I’d say the kitty tomb adorned with victims’ trophies makes him a little more than a suspect.”
Wyatt ignored the detective’s comment and continued with his next request. “Second, get the neighbor to talk to a sketch artist. See if he can come up with a composite of the roommate.”
“I’m one step ahead of you,” said Davis. “The neighbor already talked to our artist, but they didn’t come up with anything useful.”
Wyatt cursed. “Even without the roommate’s ID, you found a lot. Thanks again for everything. I owe you.”
“I’ll put it on your tab,” said Davis before ending the call.
Wyatt set aside the phone and scrubbed his face with his hands. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. His back ached from tackling
Larry in the parking lot. For the first time, he noticed a scrape on his knuckles and another on his forearm.
A floorboard behind Wyatt creaked and he turned in his seat. Everly stood at the bottom of the stairs. She’d donned his discarded shirt. Her long legs were bare, and her hair cascaded around her shoulders and down her back.
“I woke up and you were gone,” she said.
“Sorry about that. I got a call from Davis. He’d been to Larry’s old apartment. He found a compartment hidden in the wall.”
“That’s odd,” said Everly.
“It was full of mummified cats.”
A horrified expression crossed her face. “I take that back. A concealed compartment full of dead pets is pretty twisted.”
“And personal effects from the Las Vegas victims,” Wyatt added.
“I know you had some reservations about Larry. Especially since he doesn’t seem like a textbook serial killer. But doesn’t the evidence seem to be pretty overwhelming?” she said.
Wyatt looked at the notes he’d scribbled. He recalled the cold fear that had awakened him from the dream about Larry. Something wasn’t coming together.
He looked at Everly. “You’re right. I mean, everything does seem to point to him as the doer. So why can’t I shake the feeling that there’s something more? Something that we’ve been missing all along?”
* * *
Everly watched Wyatt from across the room. He wore only a pair of pants and, even at a distance, she could see the cords of tension that ran from his shoulders to his neck. She longed to massage away whatever bothered him. But now, in the cold light of morning, this was a problem she had no idea how to solve.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“There’s more to this case,” he said. “I can feel it.”
“You keep saying that, but what other evidence could there be?” As she spoke, her pulse spiked, and her hands began to shake. “Someone with a criminal record or who is cruel to animals? Check. Evidence that connects Larry to the victims? Check. Or maybe you’d be happy with a confession? Got that, too. Sincerely Wyatt, I don’t get you. You finally tracked down a notorious serial killer, why can’t you be satisfied?”
Wyatt’s eyes flashed with anger. He turned to the desk. The muscles in his back, neck and shoulders were tighter than before. “I’m plenty satisfied.”
“You don’t look it,” she said.
“Just drop it, Everly. You might be good at manipulating the media, but you’re hardly an expert on me.”
“You think that’s all I do? Influence news reports?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Completely,” she said. “But this isn’t about me—it’s about you and your inability to let go of this case, even though it’s over.”
Wyatt got to his feet and began to pace. “What do you want me to say? That I lost everything because I couldn’t find a serial killer? Now that he’s been caught I should be able to snap my fingers and get back to normal? I’ve been messed up for so long that I don’t remember what ordinary feels like.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” said Everly.
“Why not? Because you’ve fallen in love with the idea that you’ll rehabilitate me and my career, and then we’ll become some power couple in Chicago? Did it occur to you that is your dream and has nothing to do with me?”
He stopped pacing and turned to face her. “No serial killer has ever been caught because of dumb luck. This guy was methodical and careful. We just happened to stumble on our prime suspect, Larry. There was no ‘solving—’” he made air quotes “—of this case. Everything that points us to Larry is circumstantial and convenient as hell.”
Everly’s throat burned with the need to scream. But she wouldn’t allow herself to be goaded into a rage. She bit the inside of her lip until the moment passed. Inhaling deeply, she tried again. “I was the one who saw Axl’s death as more than an accident. I forced you back into this case and you figured out what happened. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Nobody forces me to do anything,” he said.
A look flashed across his face, and then it was gone. Had it been anger? Or was it hurt? What Everly wouldn’t give to be a mind reader.
A whimpering came from the corner. Gus, his eyes downcast, stood near the front door. He lifted a paw and scratched at the jamb.
Everly dropped to the bottom step. She was exhausted by it all—her brother’s death, the murder, the investigation. “I think your dog needs to go out,” she said.
The sun was just starting to peek over the distant Rocky Mountains, turning the sky crimson and orange. Everly studied Wyatt from her perch on the steps. She wanted to go to him and fall into his muscled arms; to tell him she was sorry for being difficult. Yet, why?
Everly had stumbled into Wyatt’s life. While she believed that luck had brought them together, in a few days, she’d realized that he was so much more than just a specialist to use for her own advantage.
He was smart, brave, careful, but still passionate. He was definitely not like any other man she’d ever met.
His toned chest rose and fell with each breath and she remembered the warmth of his flesh. The salty taste of his sweat. The musky scent of their shared passion.
Gus scratched the door a second time.
Wyatt said, “Let me get dressed, boy, and I’ll take you for a walk.”
He approached the stairs and held tight to the newel post. Their eyes met.
“I’ll be gone for about fifteen minutes,” he said. “Will you be here when I get back?”
Was that an invitation to stay? Or worse, a not-so-subtle suggestion to leave? In the end it didn’t matter. Everly had come to Pleasant Pines with one goal—to discover what really happened to her brother, not to fall in love. She shook her head. “I think it’s best if I get back to town. I don’t know how complicated it is to transport a body, but I’m sure there are arrangements to be made.”
“If you wait,” said Wyatt, “I can come with you.”
Yes, said Everly’s heart. Say, yes.
She dropped her gaze from his. “You’ve already helped enough.” Then she added quickly, lest he mistake her sincerity for sarcasm, “Honestly, without you I never would have found out what happened to my brother.”
“Maybe that’s what is bothering me,” said Wyatt. “We still really don’t know what happened, or why. All we have is a suspect.”
She wasn’t sure if Wyatt was admitting he thought that Larry was guilty or not. Yet, she decided to question him no further. “I guess knowing who is guilty is enough for me.”
Gus pawed the door again, this time with more force.
“You know,” he said. “This isn’t over. Larry Walker was set up to look guilty, but he’s not.”
Everly was defeated. “If not Larry,” she asked, “then who?”
Wyatt shoved his hand into his pockets and shook his head. “I’m not sure,” said Wyatt. His voice was filled with gravel. Gus whimpered. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. Obviously, we aren’t going to agree on any of this.”
Everly wasn’t sure what to say. She was unable to hold his gaze any longer and looked away.
Gus pawed at the door again.
“I have to take my dog out.”
“Go,” she said.
“Will you be here when I get back?” he asked.
Everly shook her head.
Wyatt snorted. “Probably for the best.”
Then he was gone.
Standing alone in the middle of Wyatt’s house, Everly’s chest ached. Her throat was raw. Her eyes burned. She recognized the feeling and had come to know it well. It was grief, only this time the loss was Everly’s choice.
She had to wonder: What if she chased after Wyatt now? What if she told him that coming to care for him was unexpected and scary? Yet through
this whole intense episode, she’d learned you were only guaranteed the day you had and the next one may never come. There was something between Wyatt and Everly, they both knew it. Shouldn’t they cling to whatever happiness they could find? Shouldn’t they hold on to each other?
Then again, they couldn’t even talk about who murdered her brother, the single thing they had in common, without arguing.
Leaning against the wall, Everly knew that her chance with Wyatt had vanished.
* * *
Wyatt assumed that Everly would be gone when he got back with Gus. She’d told him as much, and still he hoped that she changed her mind. The house came in to view. Her car was gone, and an emptiness filled his gut.
Why did he care? Everly had burst into his life only a few days before, disrupting his carefully cultivated world. Once again, he had all the solitude he wanted. Funny thing, though—Wyatt now hated the idea of entering a house where nobody was home.
Gus sniffed the ground where Everly’s rental car had been parked. He looked to Wyatt and whimpered.
“I know, boy,” said Wyatt. “It’s just the two of us again.”
The dog whined.
Wyatt agreed.
He opened the door and stepped into his house. His one-time refuge felt like a prison. He wandered to the window seat where they’d made love and sat down looking out at the mountains. For the first time in years, Wyatt was left without a direction, or a purpose, for his life.
“Now what?” he asked.
Gus sat in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the counter.
“Breakfast?” asked Wyatt.
The dog barked and thumped his tail in agreement.
Wyatt poured food in Gus’s dish and set it on the floor. He should eat something—he hadn’t grabbed a bite since lunch yesterday—but his appetite was gone. Leaning against the counter, Wyatt knew that he needed to pass the information he’d gotten from Davis onto Sheriff Haak.
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