“What do you want?”
The corner of his mouth curved up. “For now? I want to be the guy who makes your bed squeak.” He kissed her forehead. “And eats pasta with you”—his mouth moved to her temple—“naked in the middle of the night.”
She slid her arms around his neck. She loved the way he felt against her. She loved the solid heat of his body and the way he made her forget all her hang-ups and get lost in the moment.
He pulled her tightly against him.
“We’re not naked,” she whispered.
“Not yet.”
• • •
They rode in the unmarked SUV Dax had used for his undercover work, and Talia was impressed. It had a crack in the windshield and fabric sagging down from the ceiling.
“I think this car’s older than I am,” she said.
Dax glanced at her. “You could be right.”
They turned onto Sixth Street, and she looked around. Partygoers spilled out of the bars and clustered on street corners. Chalkboard signs advertised musical acts and cover charges. Talia took it all in. Thursday was a big night, evidently. Or maybe this was every night. She didn’t hang out in Austin’s bar district.
A pedicab swerved in front of them, and Dax slammed on the brakes. The driver shot him the bird.
“You been here lately?” Dax looked at her.
“I haven’t.”
“Neighborhood’s changed a lot. More hotels, restaurants. Everything’s gotten pricier.”
He continued down the street, passing clusters of young people milling outside bars.
“So, tell me about your TO.”
Talia looked at him. “Who?”
“Nolan Hess. He’s your training officer, isn’t he?”
Dax had been doing his homework.
“More or less,” she said. “What about him?”
“You like him?”
She narrowed her gaze. “Why?”
“I’m wondering what his rep is. He used to work for us, you know.”
Obviously, he’d heard the rumors about why Nolan left APD. Talia had heard, too, and she knew they were crap.
“Nolan’s solid,” she said simply, and left it at that.
Dax hung a right into a narrow alley, then turned right again. Graffiti covered the walls on either side of them. He reached a corner and rolled to a stop. Looking down the side street, Talia spotted a blue neon sign on the corner.
“Blue Brew,” she said.
“You been there?”
“No, but I’ve heard of it.”
He looked at her.
“I like blues music,” she said. “I keep up.”
Why did she feel the need to back up her claim? Maybe because she didn’t want him to think she was limited just because she lived in a town where the nightlife consisted of a two-screen movie theater.
Talia turned her attention to the bar, where a line of people waited out front.
“She was seen there by the bouncer?” she asked.
“That’s right. Around eleven thirty.”
Dax continued down the narrow alley. He passed a Dumpster, and Talia clutched her door as he missed it by maybe half an inch. At the corner, he hung another right and pulled over in a no-parking zone. They’d made a loop and were facing Sixth Street again.
“Bouncer at Blue Brew wouldn’t let her in,” Dax said. “Didn’t like her ID.”
“It was fake.”
“Right. And it wasn’t even hers. Belonged to one of her friends. But that bouncer wasn’t the last to see her. Bouncer at this place”—Dax pointed through the windshield—“Sullivan’s Pub, he claims he saw her walking away from Blue Brew toward the hotel where she was staying. He said a white Tahoe pulled over, and she got inside.”
“He said that? She just ‘got inside’?”
“He said that’s what it looked like. They had a short conversation, and she got into the vehicle.”
Talia shook her head. “That’s the part I don’t understand. Why would she get a ride with some random guy?”
“Happens all the time.”
“Yeah, but we’re talking about a college student. She’s smart, supposedly. And she’s not from here, so you’d think she’d be cautious, not just hop into a car with some stranger.”
“You did.”
She looked at him.
“You barely know me.”
She scoffed. “I’m armed.”
“So am I.”
“And I’m a black belt in tae kwon do. I could take you out in a heartbeat.”
He smiled. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
He shook his head. “My point is, I’m a cop, so you think you can trust me, but that’s all it takes to get you in my car.”
“What’s all it takes?”
“Some bullshit reason to trust someone.”
Talia looked across the street, disconcerted by the whole conversation. A giant slab of a man stood outside Sullivan’s Pub checking IDs.
“Is he the one?” Talia asked.
“No, the guy’s off tonight.”
“And Grace was standing on that corner there?”
“Yeah, right across the street. He remembers both the driver and Grace.”
“And this bouncer is sure it was her? You interviewed him?”
“Yeah, you know, I thought I might, since he’s a witness in my case and all.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “After we get our sketch tomorrow, I’ll send you a picture. You can run it past your guy and see if it matches the Tahoe driver he saw with Grace.”
“No need. We’ve already got a sketch.”
“You do?”
“Witness sat down with a forensic artist this afternoon and came up with a picture. It’s good, too. Lot of detail.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Not kidding,” he said. “As of five o’clock today, we have a sketch of the unsub, and you’re welcome to it.”
CHAPTER 24
Grace was living on anger, raw and pure.
She sawed the twine, ignoring the warm ooze of blood sliding down her arm. Blood was good. It meant she was alive. Her heart was still beating, so she hadn’t died and started to decompose in this godforsaken pit.
Scritch scratch scratch.
Grace strained against the bindings.
Scritch scratch scratch.
She gritted her teeth and pulled.
Scritch scratch scratch.
She rested her cheek in the dirt, struggling not to cry as she grasped for the strength to keep going, to keep making little, tiny scratches. The effort left her exhausted. Worn-out. Drained of even the slightest drop of energy.
He can’t win.
She took a breath and tried to make her fingers move again, tiny cuts with the flake of rock, but she couldn’t seem to move. It felt like an eternity since she’d started scratching at this damn twine. It felt like even longer since she’d eaten. Or had a sip of water. Just the thought of food made her stomach clench. And then it filled with hot, churning rage.
Don’t let him win.
She gripped the flake of rock again.
Scritch scratch scratch.
No food, no water. Had he forgotten her here? Had he left her to suffer a slow, wasting death? The prospect filled her with panic. She imagined her skin rotting. She imagined ants and rats and dung beetles swarming over her and feeding on her flesh.
Scritch scratch—
Movement.
Grace pulled her wrists, straining against the twine.
Scritch scratch scratch.
She pulled again, and suddenly—whoosh!
Her hands were free. She pulled the twine away and moved her arms, flailing them in disbelief. She jerked the gag from her mouth and pulled it over her chin. Her mouth was bone-dry, but she spat angrily at the ground, desperate to be rid of the taste.
She was free.
Grace sat up and instantly fell back, conking her head on the hard ground. She felt dizzy.
Breathless. Just that one effort seemed to sap her energy.
Rolling onto her side, she tried again, slowly pushing herself up onto her sore elbow.
She’d done it. She’d really done it. Her hands were free. Her arms were free. Her mouth was free.
Grace’s heart raced as she groped around the floor of the cave. Think. She’d had a plan. She’d had one. She tried to clear the cobwebs from her brain as she struggled to get it back.
Her hand encountered a torn gel packet, and she snatched it up, licking it desperately, even though she knew it was empty.
Nothing.
She flung the packet away, and her plan came back to her. She had to get out of here. That was the plan.
He always approached on her right side, so the entrance to this cave or pit or cavern, or whatever it was, was in that direction. She shifted her body and tried to stand, but her legs quivered, and pain shot up from her hip.
Crawling, then. She could crawl.
She forced herself to her hands and knees and managed a short lurch forward. And another. And another. She groped through the darkness, reaching her hand in front of her for any obstacles. After she shuffled along for a few feet, she encountered the cool wall of the cave. She brushed her fingertips over it, taking in the bumpy texture. She used it for a guide as she crawled along the floor. Rock bit into her knees, but it felt good. And terrifying. She was moving, finally, after days and days and days of being cemented in one place.
Something brushed her shoulder, and she jerked back.
A spiderweb? A spider?
She felt the wall and decided to try to stand again. Slowly, carefully, she got to her feet, leaning her hands against the wall for support. Her legs felt feeble, but they seemed to work. Nothing broken. Keeping her palm against the cool stone, she made her way through the blackness.
Icy tentacles of fear slithered through her body and curled around her heart. She couldn’t see a thing. She longed for a flashlight or a candle or even a matchstick. Just a brief flare of light would mean hope. But there was nothing, only inky darkness.
Grace concentrated on her breathing as she shuffled forward. In. Out. In. Out. The ground beneath her bare feet was cool and hard and damp in some spots, probably from dew or groundwater dripping down from above. This had to be a cave. And it had to have an opening. She only hoped she’d picked the right direction when she set out. What if she hadn’t? What if she’d taken the wrong path? What if she fell into a pit? What if she was moving deeper and deeper into an endless cavern, and she got lost and never found her way out?
Shut up, Grace. Just shut the fuck up and move.
She shuffled along, and the ground seemed to be sloping down. Gravity helping her. Or maybe her quivery legs were working better as she got her circulation going.
What would happen when she reached the opening? It was nighttime. She knew that. The bats were out now, hunting for food. Grace peered into the blackness, wishing for the slightest glimmer of moon or stars—anything to guide her.
Snick.
She halted. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she listened. Was it a bat? A predator?
Him?
She listened closely, but there was only silence. She waited a long moment, then started moving again, feeling her way.
Closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven, get me out of this hellhole. Show me the way. Our Father, who art in heaven, get me out of this hellhole. Show me the way.
Grace stopped. She felt something. The air was different here. Not as still and stagnant. It smelled like . . . cedar. Or juniper. She didn’t know exactly, but it was trees or grass, something fresh. Hope surged through her, and she hurried her steps.
Our Father, who art—
Her foot slipped. She lurched forward, trying to catch herself. She expected the ground to hit her. But it never came, and she instantly knew she’d picked the wrong way.
A rusty scream tore from her throat as she fell into the void.
CHAPTER 25
Sara awoke slowly to the sound of a phone. It wasn’t hers.
She shook off the fog and looked across the room to see Nolan’s leather jacket draped over the armchair. He was here. In the shower, from the sound of it.
She pulled on her robe and padded to the kitchen. She needed caffeine to clear the haze. As she measured out coffee grounds, she thought about everything that had happened.
She’d invited Nolan home with her.
He’d spent the night.
For the first time in years, she’d let her guard down with a man and delved way too deep into stuff from her past. She should probably feel self-conscious or maybe regretful, but she didn’t feel either of those things. She felt . . . light.
His phone beeped again, and she eyed it on the counter. The shower went off. Then the bathroom door opened and closed, and she heard him moving around but resisted the temptation to watch him dress. A minute later, he appeared in the living room shirtless and barefoot, jeans unsnapped. He snagged his shirt off the floor and glanced at her as he slid his arms into the sleeves.
“Someone’s pinging you,” she said. “Coffee?”
“Yeah.” He walked over, buttoning up. “I borrowed your razor.”
She smiled, picturing him using her dainty pink razor. “No problem. Cream? Sugar?”
“You don’t have cream.”
“I don’t?” She checked the fridge and discovered he was right.
She poured two mugs and handed him one. He kissed her forehead before taking a sip.
“I’m running late,” he said. “I can drive you to work, but it needs to be soon.”
“I’m supposed to pick up my car at nine. Kelsey said she’d take me.”
His phone beeped again, and he walked over to check it, tucking in his shirttail as he read. He frowned and muttered a curse.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “The case is heating up.”
“What’s that mean?”
He scrolled through a text, then looked over at her. “Austin’s come through with something. A possible sketch of our suspect.”
“Really?”
“This happened last night.” He kept scrolling. “Talia’s bringing it to the task force meeting.”
“I want to see it.”
“Huh?” He glanced up.
“The suspect sketch.”
“I’ll send it to you.”
He crossed the room and picked up his shoes and socks from the floor. He sank onto an armchair and quickly put them on. Clearly, he was late for something important, and this was exactly the scenario she’d worried about: his work needed him, and he was with her, a hundred miles away.
He grabbed his belt and holster off the coffee table. As he threaded the belt through the loops, she remembered unbuckling it last night. He picked up the handcuffs off the table and looked at her as he tucked them into place.
“You working this weekend?” he asked.
“Probably. Why?”
He walked over and slid his hand around her waist, sending a ripple of heat through her. “I’m slammed, but I’d like to see you. I don’t know when, though. Feels like things are coming to a head.” He released her and grabbed his jacket. “Can I call you when I know my timing?”
“Yeah.” Nerves tightened her stomach as she followed him to the door and flipped the latch. “Or even if you don’t.” She paused awkwardly. “Call me anyway.”
He bent down and kissed her. “I will.”
When he was gone, Sara returned to the kitchen and picked up her coffee. She sipped it absently as she replayed their rushed conversation.
Thing were heating up, coming to a head. There was a suspect sketch.
He was slammed with work, and still he wanted to see her.
She looked at her rumpled bed and pictured Nolan in it. The two pillows were bunched together in the middle because they’d spent the night curled up together.
And it
hit her.
There was no heading this off. It had already happened. Whatever this was, she was in it.
Her downstairs buzzer sounded, and she looked at the intercom. Was he back? He wouldn’t come back—he was late. Maybe he’d forgotten something.
She crossed to the intercom and pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Hi, it’s Alex. Can I come up?”
“Uh, sure.” Sara checked her watch and buzzed her in. What would Alex be doing here at eight in the morning? Sara threw on some clothes and smoothed her hair as she opened the door.
Alex was striding down the hallway. She wore her usual jeans and T-shirt and had her computer bag on her shoulder.
“Sorry to bug you so early, but this couldn’t wait.”
“No problem.”
She stopped in front of Sara and gave her a puzzled look. “Weirdest thing, I could have sworn I just saw Nolan’s truck on your street.”
Sara opened her mouth to say something but couldn’t think of a thing.
“Oh, my God. Was he here?”
“He just left.” Sara ushered her inside. “You want some coffee?” Before Alex could answer, Sara went into the kitchen and started pouring a mug.
Alex’s grin faded as she set her computer bag on the counter. “Well, that’s interesting.”
Sara slid the mug across the counter. “It is.” She took a deep breath. “I think I just did something stupid.”
Alex laughed. “I bet it was worth it.”
“No, the sex part definitely was, but I think . . .” She rubbed her forehead. “I think I might have just started a relationship.”
“Hmm. And?”
“And . . . and he’s a workaholic cop who lives nowhere near me! This will never work out.” She combed her hands into her hair. “And he’s an unbelievably good man, and one of us is going to end up disappointed. What the hell am I doing, Alex?”
She gave Sara a sympathetic look.
“Forget it. Let’s not talk about me.” Sara held up her hands. “Let’s talk about whatever you have that couldn’t wait.”
Alex unzipped her computer bag. “I’ve been investigating that drone footage, and I found something interesting.” She took out her laptop and powered it up. “After tracing the digital footprints of the user who set up these two Twitter accounts, I’m more convinced than ever that he’s our unsub.”
Stone Cold Heart Page 24