Chapter 26
Sarah sat at the intersection of Calderwood Lane and Beauchamp Road.
She stared into the mist swirling around her headlights.
Not once, except for maybe when she and Lex parted ways, had Sarah felt the compulsion to kill anyone.
To actually commit the act.
Okay, so she hadn’t really wanted to kill him, but the temptation had crossed her mind. For about two seconds.
But there wasn’t a day that passed that she didn’t wonder if, forced to defend herself, the act would plunge her into a different reality. One where she couldn’t resist the desire to take another life given the proper motivation or not.
Her mother had killed eight people and kept the ongoing activity hidden for a decade.
Sarah’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Her father had been a cheat who cared about no one but himself. For the duration of his short life, if Sarah had her guess. According to her aunt, he’d always been a lying two-timer.
Sarah’s entire genetic makeup, all that she was, had resulted from the combination of deceit, uncontrollable urges, and lies.
She understood, even before her shrink had told her as much, that her past was the reason truth was so intensely important to her. She damned sure hadn’t needed Lex to remind her.
And Sarah could live with that.
But, if the trigger for one or more of those bad traits—and all addicts had triggers for their vices—was ever tripped, would there be any turning back?
The age at which her hair grayed or wrinkles developed or the propensity for illness kicked in—it was all genetic. The color of her eyes . . . her hair . . . her height . . . every damned thing.
Her mother had been thirty when she’d murdered her first victim. Did that make Sarah’s upcoming birthday a long-buried trigger? Was she more likely to commit the act at that point, the same as she might expect certain physical changes?
If she knew for certain that would happen, was there anything she could or should do about it? Put herself on house arrest? Kill herself before she could kill anyone else?
Did repeat murderers consider killing themselves to stop the compulsion? Or was the power and excitement of the act far too big a rush to miss?
Sarah scrubbed at her eyes. She was definitely losing her perspective, maybe even her mind.
This case hit far too close to home for reasons she couldn’t yet discern.
Was staying another day, even another minute, a mistake?
Conner had tried to reach her five or six times.
She wasn’t calling him back. He was a distraction she didn’t need.
His family, like the Popes, made her too keenly aware of what she’d missed growing up.
And he, Kale Conner, the good-looking fisherman who’d given up his own future to live out his father’s dream, was some kind of kryptonite to her.
He made her wonder. Made her want to be a part of something she couldn’t name.
Yet, he was ultimately no better than she was. He was faking it, too. Pretending that work was all life was about. No wife, no girlfriend. Just his work to keep him company. Oh, and the dog. How was his life so different from hers?
They weren’t good for each other. He needed her about as much as she needed him.
Taking her foot off the brake, she headed for the inn. Sleep would do her good.
And maybe for once she’d follow the doctor’s orders and take the stupid medicine.
Yeah, right. The ability to function at full capacity was far too important to her.
Chief Willard had shut her out of the investigation. Lex would ensure she didn’t get back in. If new evidence had been discovered, the cops might just eventually find the killer with or without her participation.
Maybe Don was right and she should go back to New York. If she couldn’t accomplish anything here, why stay? The only mystery that needed to be solved was identifying the scumbag who liked murdering young women.
No spooks, curses, or boogeymen here.
The fog hovering around the harbor obscured the lights, giving it a definite creep factor and seeming to defy her conclusion.
It was too dark to see much of Bay View Cemetery. Just that foreboding black iron fence.
Were the two crows still waiting on Mattie Calder’s headstone?
Sarah shook her head. She’d drifted way off course, intertwining fact with fiction.
Time to set a new one.
The inn stood alone atop that steep hill, the few illuminated windows staring out like pale eyes watching over all of Youngstown.
Tomorrow morning she would need to get a foot in the reverend’s door. Or catch him away from the house. Or the niece. The niece might even be better. She appeared anxious to talk. Possibly to get even with her uncle for whatever he had done to her.
Maybe Sarah would catch Barton Harvey in a good mood and go over a few details with him. Like whether or not he wanted to chase her through the woods again.
Yeah, and maybe it would be a pleasant eighty degrees tomorrow.
Not going to happen unless she hopped a plane south.
Her headlights flashed across a silver vehicle.
Jeep.
Conner was waiting for her.
Anticipation shimmered, warming her in ways that should set off any number of alarms. But that didn’t happen. Instead, she made excuses for not turning around and driving the other way. Maybe he had news he intended to share on the investigation.
But then he would only give her what the chief had authorized. She could get that on the nightly news.
Sarah parked her car and got out. The Jeep was deserted. She glanced at the inn. He would be waiting for her in the lobby.
Or in her room.
Another rush of heat, this one lower, deeper.
The lobby was closed for the night. A small desk light spread its glow across the registration counter; otherwise, the room was dark.
Sarah climbed the stairs, listening to the silence. No television noise. No chatter of conversation. Not even the roar of the oil furnace.
But he was here, she didn’t have to hear him . . . she felt him.
Sure enough, down the hall, propped in front of her door, was Kale Conner.
His coat lay on the floor at his feet. With his head leaned against the wall and eyes closed, he looked asleep, but she knew better.
As she came closer, he lifted his head and turned toward her. She braced for the confrontation.
“You have a message.” He unfolded his arms and held a piece of paper in her direction.
She took the paper in one hand and dug for her key with the other. “Thanks.” The number on the message was her shrink’s. She wadded the note and shoved it into her coat pocket. “You been waiting long?”
He picked up his coat. “Long enough.”
She wondered how long they could dance around the real reason he was here. He would want to know if Lex had told the truth. How she’d managed to survive . . . et cetera, et cetera.
She didn’t want to talk about it.
In her room, she tossed her bag on the floor by the bed and shrugged off the coat. “Have you been authorized to bring me up to speed on the case?”
“No.”
Well, that was short and direct.
She looked him square in the eyes. “How much do you plan to tell me off the record?” The man had something on his mind. That was certain.
He dropped his coat onto the chair next to the seriously lacking excuse for a minibar. “Everything.”
Surprised, she took a step in his direction. “You’re going to break the rules?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there some reason you feel compelled to do that?” She took another step; her pulse reacted to his nearness, to merely looking at him. Those broad shoulders. Lean hips. Long legs. And that face.
His shadowed jaw only made him sexier.
Hadn’t she decided that being involved with him was breaking her own number one rule?
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.
” He claimed the final step between them.
“I want to talk about you.” He hitched his head toward the door.
“I’ve been standing out there all this time thinking about you.
And what I wanted to say to you.” Sympathy flickered in his eyes. “I’m sorry about . . . today.”
Oh, hell no. She didn’t want or need his sympathy. “You’re sorry?” Anger scaled her senses. “Why should you be sorry? Lex is an asshole; my past is what it is. None of that has anything to do with you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” She planted her hands on her hips. Her personal life was none of his business. If he wanted to give her information or to have sex, fine. Otherwise, he could go.
He stared at the floor a moment, then met her eyes, his filled with more of that misplaced concern. “About what happened when you were a kid.” He exhaled a troubled breath. “Your mom. That had to be tough.”
“My mother chopped up and buried seven victims. Then she ground my father into sausage. She was nuts. They put her away. End of story.” Tension throbbed in Sarah’s veins. She never discussed her past with anyone but her shrink. This was unnecessary. A waste of time and energy.
“And you were there . . . ?”
If Conner just wouldn’t look at her that way. Maybe she could deal with this. Get past it. But those eyes . . . damn those eyes. “I was there. I heard the screams, the voices. Sometimes I stumbled over body parts. Just another night in the butcher shop.”
The memories rammed against her defenses. She closed her eyes, forced them back. Still they came. She’d been terrified of the basement under the butcher shop. Blood-soaked earth. All those bones. All the rotting personal items.
Stop.
She opened her eyes and stared at the man watching her with such overwhelming compassion in those dark eyes. “I got over it.”
Silence thickened in the air.
“Did you?”
Her stomach clenched. His voice . . . the way he kept looking at her . . . made her want to let him hold her. To protect her. No one made her feel that way. No one. She had to get this under control. Now.
“Enough about the past, Conner.” She folded her arms over her chest, banished those weak emotions. “Brief me on the case or get in my bed, those are your options.”