6. four
four
. . .
ASPEN
Crew Lawless was incredibly easy to talk to.
And even easier on the eyes.
I had to keep my wits about me around that one, lest I let his hypnotic ocean gaze pull me into the deep and never let me go.
That man…he was fucking dangerous. Arguably more dangerous to me than the killer I was chasing.
Two hours passed in a blink, and against my better judgement, we exchanged numbers before parting with the promise that I’d call if I needed anything at all.
The demand was so fucking suggestive, I almost gave in right there. It had been a long ass time since I had good sex, and Crew gave Big Dick Energy, the kind I knew he’d be able to back up.
Maybe, once I was a little more settled in town, I’d make our acquaintance a little less professional.
He didn’t strike me as the type to want more than something casual anyway, so despite the red flags waving in the muscles and the grin and the sexy ass tattoos, it probably wouldn’t kill me to take him for a ride.
Fucking hell, McKay , I silently admonished myself. Get it together.
I had a job to do, first and foremost .
After we parted ways, I headed back to my motel room with a copy of the incident reports Crew and the Chief had agreed to give me, spending hours poring over them and taking copious notes. Getting the full scope of the crimes without the police reports was difficult, but I did the best I could. I broke briefly for lunch, then set off on my next errand.
Emboldened by the ease with which Crew and the fire station team had agreed to help me, my next stop at the sheriff’s department was only logical.
An artificial bell signaled my entrance when I pushed the door open, and the desk sergeant stood and waved me over.
“Hello, miss,” she said, her voice muffled by the sheet of plexiglass between us. “What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping I could speak to someone about the Prom Night Arsonist.”
In that detached, cop-like way, she did a quick perusal of my person. Ultimately, she must have assumed I wasn’t a threat, because she plastered on the fakest smile I’d ever seen, and said, “Excuse me a moment while I get the sheriff.”
She disappeared, and I took a moment to turn about the small lobby, studying the framed photos and accolades on the walls.
My gaze latched onto a photo of an officer in full dress uniform, a shiny star pinned to his chest, surrounded by a crowd of people. There in the thick of it all was none other than Crew Lawless. Younger than he was now, face freshly shaved, missing that darker blonde stubble that shaded his chin and jaw now. The man filled the hell out of a pale blue button down shirt and khaki pants.
Which meant the officer had to be his brother, the sheriff.
As though I’d conjured him, the buzz of a door being opened remotely sounded from my left, and a hulking man with tattoos engulfing both arms, unlike his brother’s single sleeve, stepped through .
By my estimation, the sheriff had maybe an inch of height on Crew, but they were both impressively broad-shouldered and muscular, every bit of them from head to toe exuding strength and masculinity. I wondered which one was older.
This one , I decided mentally after studying his face and the lines branch out from his eyes more closely.
“I’m Sheriff Lawless,” he said. “Can I help you, Miss…”
There was an irony to be found in his title, a joke buried somewhere.
“McKay, but please, call me Aspen.”
“Alright, Aspen,” he said, somewhat warily as he hooked his thumbs into his belt. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I began, withdrawing my license and ID from my bag. “I’m here looking into the Prom Night Arsonist murders, and I was curious if the department would be willing to let me take a look at the case files.”
The sheriff didn’t respond; he merely spun on his heel and jerked his head at the desk clerk, who admitted us into the inner sanctum.
The heads of his deputies swiveled toward us, tracking our every step through the bullpen until we reached an office at the back. The sheriff ushered me in and closed the door. Without an invitation, I sank onto one of the guest chairs in front of his desk and waited for him to take his seat.
“Tell me why you’re really here,” he said once he did, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning forward to study me. Clearly, he and Crew were related. I would’ve figured it out even if Crew hadn’t told me his brother was the sheriff. Their hair was the same shade, eyes a matching crystal blue. But where Crew’s entire demeanor was warm and inviting, the sheriff’s was closed off and wary.
“I told you. I’m here looking into the Prom Night Arsonist.”
“How do you even know about it?”
“A concerned citizen. ”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “I’d like the name of this concerned citizen.”
“Sorry, Sheriff. No can do. That’s privileged information.”
Like hell was I about to drag the Lees into this when they specifically asked to be kept out of it.
He exhaled harshly through his nose, and I waited for him to stand and start screaming. His hands flexed, his knuckles blanching with each curled fist, highlighting the letters inked on each.
Love free .
Interesting sentiment from a cop.
“Fine,” he clipped. “Either way, the answer is no. Those files are, shall we say… privileged information .” His smirk was downright menacing as he turned my own words against me.
“Fair enough,” I said, rising from the chair and extending my hand. The sheriff straightened to his full height, glaring down his nose at me, ignoring my attempt at cordiality. I let my hand drop. “Thank you for your time.”
I was almost to the door when he said my name, and I looked over my shoulder at him.
“This case brings up a lot of bad memories for a lot of people in this town. You’d be better off packing up and leaving matters to the authorities.”
I snorted. “While I’d love to”—I didn’t, actually, and we both knew it—“it seems to me the authorities haven’t accomplished a damn thing in over forty years. See you around.”
With that, I flung the door open and exited his office.
I felt his eyes like laser beams between my shoulder blades the entire way out.
The next night, I found myself at Dusk Valley’s watering hole, also known as The Swallow—the ideal place to learn all the local gossip.
The Swallow was about what you’d expect for a small town bar. The sign out front featured a human hand holding a mug of frothy beer, tipping it into the waiting mouth of a bird—a swallow, obviously. The letters were neon tubing twisted into a bold, no-nonsense font that glowed brightly in the dark. A beacon for wayward souls.
Or private investigators who had been stymied by the police.
When I pushed through the heavy oak door, I was surprised by its spaciousness. Though smoking in public places had been outlawed ages ago, the scent of tobacco still clung to the room. Off to one side was a large area cordoned off by wooden half walls to create a dance floor presided over by a raised stage. The bar stretched the length of the opposite wall, and a man and woman hustled back and forth behind it.
As I moved deeper inside, weaving through freestanding tables, I could feel several sets of eyes on me, but I didn’t pay them any mind. I was used to this particular dance. Afterall, I was fresh meat. The new, shiny thing nobody could take their eyes off.
At last, I reached the bar and managed to, miraculously, locate a free stool. I dropped onto it, and the male bartender approached, expression giving nothing away as he slid a coaster in front of me and gruffly said, “What can I get you?”
“Whatever your local draft IPA is, please,” I replied as I withdrew my wallet from my crossbody bag.
With a curt nod, he moved over to the tap, poured my beer, and returned.
“Five bucks.”
I handed him a ten and told him to keep the change.
That seemed to loosen him up a bit because after putting my order in the till and cashing out, he slipped his tip into his pocket and turned to me with a wide grin .
“So what brings you to town?” he asked.
“Little of this, little of that,” I said noncommittally, taking a sip of my beer.
“You here alone?”
Dragging my finger coyly around the rim of my glass, I asked, “Why?”
He leaned forward on his elbows and dropped his voice. “Just wondering if I’ve got any competition.”
I tipped my head back and laughed. Amazing, how a five dollar tip could change a man’s mood so drastically. With dark hair and eyes and a reasonably symmetrical face, he wasn’t bad looking, though he couldn’t be older than twenty-five and thus too young for me.
Still, it made me wonder what I could accomplish with a twenty—or with a different incentive entirely.
“Yes, I’m here alone,” I answered, shifting closer like I was about to share a secret. “Actually, I’m a private investigator here on a case.”
His eyes widened fractionally, curiosity clearly piqued.
“What kind of case?”
“Murder. Arson. The usual.”
He straightened to his full height—which, if I had to guess, was right around six feet—and crossed his arms over his chest. He had two thick bands of dark ink wrapping around his right forearm, but no other tattoos or identifying marks that I could see.
“The Prom Night Arsonist.”
“Good guess,” I praised. “What can you tell me about it?”
One of his shoulders hitched up in a half-shrug. “I know what the papers tell me. Some sicko has been tormenting our town for decades.”
“Did you know any of the victims personally?”
“A few,” he answered noncommittally. Clearly, the walls had gone back up, making it unlikely that I’d get anything else out of him.
Still, I pressed. “Are any of the families of the victims still around?”
“Almost all of them, I think. Except maybe the Lees? They typically head south for the winter and haven’t returned yet that I’ve seen.”
“And you’d notice?”
“It’s a small town, lady. And I work here.”
“Fair enough. So let’s say I wanted to talk to someone about those murders and the victims, and the sheriff’s department is no help. What would you suggest I do?”
Once again, he rested his elbows on the bar, this time more menacing than flirtatious. “You want my honest opinion?” I nodded. “Give it up. You’re an outsider, which means the people of this place won’t exactly be welcoming or forthcoming when they find out you’re dredging up all this old shit. There hasn’t been a murder in a few years. I’d suggest letting it go and getting out of town before something bad happens to you too.”
My hackles rose. “Is that a threat?”
He shrugged and pursed his lips. “Statement of fact. Have a nice night.”
And then he was gone, leaving me reeling.
I hadn’t expected to be welcomed with a goddamn parade or anything, but you’d think these people would look a little more kindly on someone trying to help them.
In my haste to get away from the bar, I accidentally collided with another body. My beer sloshed all over my bag, hand, and the front of my shirt, immediately suctioning the material to my skin.
A very pissed off woman, her strawberry blonde hair cut in a severe bob at her chin, glared at me in disgust.
“Watch where you’re going!” she sneered, striking green eyes shining with malice. “What is wrong with you? ”
“I’m so sorry,” I replied, unsure why I was apologizing. The woman appeared no worse for the wear. Her clothes were still dry, drink still full in her hand.
With a huff, she disappeared into the crowd, her friend mumbling an apology to me before following.
In search of napkins, I turned back to the bar, only to find the bartender smirking and shaking his head. I’d find no assistance from him.
The natives had officially turned on me, and I needed to leave— now .
Wiping my hands off as best as I could on my jeans, I pushed my way through the crowd and exited into the night.
Goosebumps erupted on my arms instantly as the chilled air hit my drenched shirt, and I plucked it away from my body as I made my way across the packed dirt parking lot toward Black Betty, cursing the entire way.
In my back jeans pocket, my phone had been spared any damage. I pulled it out and started a Google search for a local laundromat. I’d also need to see about finding a new bag. Mine was likely ruined beyond repair, the dark amber of my beer soaking in and staining the pale canvas fabric.
I never saw the hit coming.
One moment, I was stomping the final ten feet to my SUV. The next, I was belly down on the ground, my skull throbbing.
Lifting a shaky hand, I probed my skull, my fingertips coming away red.
Blood .
What the fuck?
My bag had landed several feet away when I fell, and I tried to scramble for it and the taser inside. I only managed a few feet before my assailant caught hold of my hair and wrenched me back, my neck craning to an uncomfortable angle. A kick to my ribs had it snapping forward, a crunch echoing from my nose when my face collided with the ground. Pain bloomed, my eyes watering, blurring my vision, and hot liquid dribbled into my mouth.
More blood .
A cold, terrifying laugh rose goosebumps all over my skin, and another well-placed kick to my side had me gasping for air. I still tried to crawl for my taser, screaming for help, but there was no one around to hear me. Another boot to my ribs yet again thwarted my progress.
The realization of how this would play out hit me with sickening clarity: there would be no escaping.
Confirming my thoughts, there was a jolt, burn, and buzz against my neck that reverberated through my entire body.
Then everything went black.