by Hank Edwards
“So you caught her breaking and entering,” Musgrave said with a satisfied smirk. “That should keep her off the streets for a while.”
Jazz pretty much heard, “and out of my daughter’s life,” without Musgrave saying a word.
Musgrave’s beady eyes shot to Ally next. “Why were you breaking into Misty’s salon?”
“I only wanted to get this,” Ally said quietly and held up the blonde ponytail.
“Hair?” Musgrave practically shouted. “You were breaking in here for some goddamn hair? Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Sheriff,” Jazz said, and when Musgrave turned his withering gaze on him, Jazz lowered his voice. “That is Rae’s hair that I cut off.”
Musgrave’s face went slack. He stared blankly at Jazz a moment, and then his face steadily turned red as his anger level increased. Very slowly, he turned back to Ally. “That’s my daughter’s hair?”
Ally squirmed, her gaze darting from Musgrave to Jazz to the deputies and back again. “Y-yes. I wanted to make hair art out of it. I didn’t want her to cut it. I tried to talk her out of it. I thought I’d convinced her, but after she got home for the summer, she must have changed her mind.”
“What the fuck is hair art?” Joe wanted to know.
“It’s a Victorian custom. You weave scenes and make bows out of hair of loved ones. Mostly after they die, but….” Ally slid the hair through her fingers and looked lovingly down at it. “I really loved her hair.”
Jazz watched Musgrave’s anger soften and then vanish, the transition making him appear older and very tired.
“Yeah, I did too,” the sheriff said. He might have heard how emotional that sounded and followed it up with a throat-clearing cough. “But it doesn’t mean you can just break into a place of business to steal someone’s hair to make some weird art thingy.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ally said as she stroked the hair again.
“Fine. All right, so the hairdresser shot the preacher, and then we’ve got the podcaster, the hair thief, and the mortician coming in through the back door. What happened next?”
Jazz listened as Michael explained everything in his succinct way. The soothing sound of Michael’s voice helped Jazz feel better. Musgrave took it all in without interrupting, which Jazz found particularly interesting. Musgrave usually loved to interrupt.
“And how do you two know each other?” Musgrave pointed at Ally and Joe.
“I contacted him to investigate Dylan’s murder. I was hoping he could help expose Norbert Farthington as an accomplice, find clues with the help of all the listeners on his podcast.”
“We agreed to meet and discuss a possible interview this weekend because we were both following the music circuit,” Joe added. “Me because of the Banjo Killer—I mean Violin Killer? Jeesh, that really doesn’t sound as cool, does it? Maybe the Music Man?” He looked at Jazz.
“Already taken.”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, I’ll have to think about it. Bowstring Killer, maybe?”
“It has a ring,” Jazz conceded.
Before Musgrave could explode, Joe quickly went on, “Anyway, Ally was here to perform, and I was following the serial killer. I never thought Herschel would go after a suspect from a different story I was working on. From what I’ve been able to piece together, Herschel has probably murdered at least eighteen people. Quite possibly more.”
Jazz’s stomach knotted. What the actual fuck was wrong with that guy?
“All right, I’ve heard enough for now,” Musgrave said. He pointed at Ally and Joe. “Do not move. I’m not finished with you. Dilworth, let’s get you to the hospital. Fleishman, I’m assuming you’ll want to ride along.”
“You assume correctly, Hilton,” Michael said, and gave him a smile as he reached out to squeeze Jazz’s hand.
“Go out and wait by my car,” Musgrave said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Jazz let Michael lead him by the hand out the front door of the salon. Behind them, Jazz heard Musgrave giving the Tompkins twins instructions on securing the crime scene and calling for more officers to take Ally and Joe to the station to give their statements. Joe was more than willing to provide the department with all of the evidence he’d collected, so long as he got credit for breaking the story and first dibs on giving the killer his nickname.
Jazz thought about wishing the guy good luck, because Musgrave had taken full credit for arresting and catching Russell, even though Michael and Jazz had really done it, but Jazz was done—with Russell, cops, Herschel, all of it. He just wanted a big hug from his boyfriend.
Outside the summer air was still warm and sultry. People lingered nearby, lured away from the upcoming fireworks to watch—yet again—as cops swarmed the salon. Red-and-blue lights flashed across curious faces, and thankfully two more deputies arrived and kept the people back.
When they reached the sheriff’s cruiser, Jazz rested his butt against the side and turned to face Michael. “You saved me.”
“You saved yourself,” Michael replied. “I showed up a little late.”
“I was pretty scared for a minute there,” Jazz said and was surprised to find himself fighting back tears. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you again.”
“Oh, Jazz.” Michael stepped closer, wedging himself between Jazz’s legs and resting a hand against Jazz’s cheek.
Jazz quickly wrapped his arms around Michael’s waist. He rested his cheek on that strong, safe chest.
“I can’t believe I could have lost you,” Michael murmured, hands shaking.
“You and me both. But mostly I was scared I wouldn’t get to tell you things I needed to,” he whispered. “Important things.”
Holding him close, Michael dipped his head and gave Jazz a soft, quick kiss on his brow. “Like what? Tell me now.”
Jazz raised his head, caressing Michael’s back. He took a breath and slowly released it. Russell was out of his life. All of this craziness had nothing to do with him. Jazz was finally free of everything that had been haunting him since Dylan’s death. He felt an incredible weight lift off his shoulders, and his breaths came easier. With Michael’s arms around him, despite everything they’d been through, or maybe because of it, Jazz knew then that Michael was the best thing to ever happen to him.
He met Michael’s curious gaze.
He took another breath and let it out.
“I love you, Michael.”
Michael’s eyes widened in time with his smile. He leaned in for a long, deep kiss as a sudden boom from overhead startled them both. Fireworks lit up the entire sky, and from Lacetown Park they could hear the crowd ooo-ing and ahhh-ing over the display.
“I love you too, Jazz,” Michael said, raising his voice to be heard over the boom of another firework. He stroked Jazz’s cheek softly. “So very, very much.”
They kissed again beneath the beautiful fireworks, and Jazz had never felt so happy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE PASSION, terror, and love that had pounded through Michael’s body when he saw Jazz hurt were the most intense emotions he’d ever felt in his entire life.
At least until Jazz told him he loved him.
And that was something worth fighting for.
Two days had passed since Jazz was released from the hospital. Michael could still feel the delicious tingle of that kiss after their shared passionate declarations of love under the fireworks, all in the aftermath of another almost murder. Michael had insisted Jazz come home with him, though it might have been presumptuous to call his house Jazz’s “home.” Jazz had willingly agreed, and Michael had been caring for him since.
Misty closed the salon until at least Thursday, and no one seemed terribly upset. Dorothy and the two children were staying with Misty, and Musgrave had called Child Protective Services to help get those poor teenagers back on track.
After several rounds of questioning, Musgrave determined Dorothy and Beatrice had no knowledge of Herschel’s murderous side. Herschel had secretly m
ade a copy of Misty’s salon key, and he’d been telling his stepson of his righteous cleansing mission and trying to get him to join his cause when Jazz walked in on them. Apparently, for years before they visited Lacetown, Herschel had forced Oslo to make braids of his broken bow strings, which unbeknownst to poor Oslo, Herschel had then used to strangle those he considered sinners. Afterward, in true serial-killer fashion, Herschel had kept each souvenir of murder close by braiding the strings into the longer cord which he used as a bookmark. That DNA evidence linked him to six unsolved murders so far. The residue and fibers Trevino discovered on Norbert’s wound were rosin and horsehair, and the bleach on the victim’s nails was a chemical match to the wipes Herschel apparently made his whole family wash their hands with, like some sort of disturbed ritual.
A sick fuck, as Jazz had aptly labeled him.
The other sicko in their life was supposed to have a televised interview next Sunday, and they’d both decided not to watch. Russell might not have sent someone to kill them, but his heavy presence affected their relationship, and they’d decided to eliminate his influence as much as possible. And that included Michael no longer rereading the books for clues.
Helping the prosecution wasn’t as important as their relationship.
Though dreams teased Michael with visions of Jazz being hurt—many including Russell—having Jazz in his home made Michael feel a little better. Hopefully in time, they would be able to move on and stop reliving the nightmare.
“Here you go,” Michael announced as he entered the living room, carrying a tray of hot tea, Jazz’s prescription, and a pastry from Robichaux Bakery.
“Oh, sweetie, I could have come and got that.” Jazz put down the TV remote and looked up at him, those cognac-colored eyes open and earnest. “I really don’t like how I keep being hurt and necessitating you take care of me, but… does it make me selfish that I love it when you take care of me?”
When Jazz’s voice cracked, Michael murmured, “I love taking care of you.”
“Then I shall let you take care of me. After all, I’d do anything to make you happy.” Jazz clicked off the TV as Michael set the tray down and sat beside him on the couch.
At once, they wrapped themselves into each other’s arms, holding on tight.
“Damn,” Michael whispered. He shuddered at what he could have lost that night. “I’m so glad you’re okay and that bastard didn’t really hurt you.”
Jazz’s grip on Michael tightened, almost painfully so. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Those words were a balm to Michael’s soul, and he drew back to gently brush the long tendrils of hair from Jazz’s brow and cheek, tucking the hair behind one ear and then the other. He kissed Jazz on the forehead. “C’mon, time for your antibiotics.”
Jazz gave him a quirk of his perfect brows, but allowed Michael to open the bottle and hand him the pill. Jazz might have joked about Michael seeing to his needs, but he seemed to understand how desperately Michael needed to do so.
After Jazz obediently took his pill with the tea, he said, “How is it you get the water the perfect temperature to drink? Not too hot and not too cold?”
“It’s a secret.”
Jazz set the teacup back on the tray. Michael kissed him on the cheek and brushed another imaginary stray hair off his brow. They exchanged a tender look, then Jazz reached out and placed his hand palm up on Michael’s thigh. Michael smiled and clasped it. Jazz used his free hand to pick up the croissant and take a bite. The pills usually upset his stomach, and something starchy helped.
“Any word from Misty today?” Michael asked.
Jazz grinned. “Oh, yes. Apparently everyone’s favorite sheriff paid a visit to Misty’s house to talk to the kids and Dorothy one more time… and then he invited Ms. Misty out for dinner.”
“Oh my,” Michael said with a smirk. “The scandal of it all.”
Jazz shook his head slightly. “I kind of get the attraction and kind of don’t. Mostly don’t, because of how much of an ass Musgrave’s been to us.”
“Maybe Misty can help tame his wild beast.”
“Is that a dirty euphemism, Mr. Fleishman?” Jazz asked.
“That’s up to you to decide.”
“Your turn, any word from Joe or Ally?”
“I did receive a text from Joe last night after you went to bed,” Michael replied. “Ally’s been helping him with research to try and link up even more cold cases to Herschel’s murderous cleansing. They suspect he might possibly have killed Dorothy’s husband too.”
Jazz gingerly touched the red mark on his throat. “So awful.”
Michael leaned down and gently kissed the injury. The doctors had said it would heal but Jazz might have a light scar around his throat, to which Jazz had shrugged and remarked, “I’ve always wanted to look like a badass.” But in quiet moments like this, Jazz let his guard down enough for Michael to see the toll the attack had truly taken on him.
Perhaps lured by the smell of food, Mr. Pickles joined them, jumping onto the back of the couch. He blinked impudently, then pawed Jazz’s shoulder and made a few curious meows.
Jazz looked up at Mr. Pickles with a genuine smile on his face. “I’ve taught you bad habits, haven’t I? I don’t think Daddy wants you begging.”
Michael smiled when Mr. Pickles arched into Jazz’s touch, welcoming him as if he were part of their little family.
That’s what it felt like to Michael as well. Jazz was his family. He just hoped that damnable kiss from Ezra wouldn’t end that feeling.
They’d seemed to have an unspoken agreement not to talk about anything too serious since the attack. Michael hadn’t known how to talk about the kiss with Ezra and hadn’t wanted to do anything to upset Jazz’s recovery. And Jazz hadn’t brought up his visit to see Russell, and Michael had decided to leave that slimy rock unturned for now.
But that damnable kiss kept Michael from sleeping soundly. He really didn’t want to bring it up now, but the thought of keeping secrets from Jazz made him feel awful. He hadn’t told Jazz about rereading Russell’s books and that alone had made him feel guilty, especially when he’d seen the disappointment in Jazz’s eyes. He had to be honest about this too. If the incident with Herschel taught Michael anything, it was that life was short and nothing was more important to him than Jazz Dilworth.
With a sigh, he sat back heavily on the couch.
Jazz looked up from feeding Mr. Pickles part of his croissant, his soft smile fading into concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I could’ve lost you,” Michael said, voice and lips trembling. It was no surprise when warm tears spilled from his eyes, even now.
Jazz was there at once, pulling him in tight. “But you didn’t lose me. You saved me just like you saved Mr. Pickles when he was taken.” Jazz gazed up at Michael’s face, caressing his jawline. “You’re our hero.”
Michael buried his face in Jazz’s neck, inhaling his familiar scent. He’d come so close to losing Jazz, it was too terrible to even think about. Borrowing a page out of Jazz’s playbook, Michael forced a chuckle and wiped his face dry. “As much as I like hearing that, I’d really like to lay off the heroics for a while.”
Jazz sighed and pulled back. “I know. And I’m sorry about that.”
He cocked his head in confusion. “For what?”
“All this drama that we’ve both been avoiding talking about. And me mooching off your good nature because I can’t stand the thought of being alone right now. I don’t know how you can put up with me.”
“First of all, you aren’t mooching. I invited you here to specifically take care of you. And secondly, putting up with you is very easy,” Michael said with a smile.
Jazz quirked his brows. “Even though I keep putting us in danger?”
Michael gaped in surprise. “How can you say that? You’re not responsible for the unhinged psychopaths who’ve been coming into our town lately.”
“That’s perfectly logical to say, and one
side of my brain actually believes it. But the other side?” He shook his head, hugging himself tightly. “You have to admit, I’ve brought a lot of toxic vibes into your life.”
“No, you haven’t.”
Jazz gave him an intense expression. “Have you forgotten everybody’s favorite plagiarizing pervert I’m still legally married to?”
“Married to for now,” Michael corrected.
“Yeah, for now.”
Silence hung between them for a moment, and eventually Michael asked a question that had been plaguing him. “How did the visit go?”
Jazz sighed and shifted to face Michael, stroking Mr. Pickles’s back. “Jesus, that seems like a lifetime ago. And pretty unimportant in the light of almost dying at the hands of some homophobe fuckstain.”
Snark has been initiated. Translation? Jazz is far more upset than he’s pretending to be.
Michael placed his hand on the small of Jazz’s back and rubbed him in soft circles. “Okay, no playing Mr. Sarcastic and pretending you’re not shaken.”
Jazz let out a sniff. “You know me far too well, Mr. Fleishman.”
“I do.”
“Then you know I’m shaken as shit about all this,” Jazz admitted, his voice catching. “I could have died. Again.”
Michael’s heart stopped for a flash and he sucked in a breath. “But you didn’t,” he insisted quickly, resting his chin on Jazz’s shoulder. “You didn’t.”
Jazz was quick to wrap his arms around Michael’s waist. “My visit with Russell, his bullshit amnesia game, none of it’s important.”
Michael sat up straight, eyes wide. “He is playing that game?”
“Confirmed,” Jazz said with a nod. “So you reading through his books again will help. But, you know, I’m done with Russell. Whatever the hell he put in those divorce papers, I’m just gonna sign it and let it be over. I don’t even care. I want this finished so I can be with you one hundred percent.”
Michael refrained from saying Jazz should have a lawyer make sure that everything was fair. Now was not the time for his usual Debbie Downer remarks.