17. fifteen
fifteen
. . .
ASPEN
Crew cleared his throat and he shuffled away from me, giving me some much needed distance from his… everything .
“So, what’re you making?” he croaked.
Tipping my face away from him, my lips tilted up in a small smile. Knowing I flustered him as much as he did me was a powerful realization.
“Tomato, hamburger, and rice soup. It’s a simple dish, but one of my ultimate comfort meals. I thought it would make me feel better, after everything, and you had all the ingredients…” I trailed off as I shot him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I should’ve asked before rifling through your shit.”
“What did I just tell you?”
The words were practically a growl, emanating from deep in his chest.
“To make myself comfortable?” I said, though my inflection at the end phrased it as more of a question.
“Exactly.” He leaned forward and sniffed as I stirred. “And this smells fucking amazing.”
My cheeks were damn near flaming now.
I was used to living alone and spending the bulk of my time on my own. Even on a case, I was a one woman show, a solitary operation. It had been nearly fifteen years since I’d lived with my parents, and roughly twelve since I had any sort of roommate. I was operating on an outdated playbook regarding cohabitating etiquette.
Crew hadn’t seemed to mind, though. I hadn’t missed the way his eyes heated as he’d taken me and my bare legs in earlier. There was such… desire in that look. Despite my embarrassment, it made me feel good. Reminded me that I was alluring, that someone found me attractive.
I was simply having a hard time wrapping my brain around this tattooed, action-figure-come-to-life, literal hero being the one.
Then again, he didn’t know my story. Crew could easily look at me and see something other than the broken girl I’d considered myself since my sister died.
While I added the finishing touches to the soup, Crew withdrew half of a baguette from the pantry, sliced, buttered, and topped it with thick cut mozzarella before putting it in the oven broiler.
Honestly, his kitchen was a dream. Hell, the entire house belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.
When the soup was done, we carried bowls and the tray of bread to the island and sat side by side to eat.
The silence was surprisingly companionable as we tucked in. I didn’t feel any sort of compulsion to fill it with pointless babble. Crew was easy to be around. There were no frills about the man. So far as I could tell, he was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, but I also had a feeling there was more to him than met the eye.
When we finished, the tray of bread nothing but crumbs and our bowls practically licked clean, Crew wordlessly gathered our dishes and brought them to the sink, rinsing them before loading them into the dishwasher .
I added that to the mental list of things I liked about him. For all intents and purposes, he was a bachelor, but by the state of his home, you’d never know it. Everything was clean but cozy, not a thing out of place.
“Do you have a housekeeper or something?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder, brow creased, and despite having those gorgeous blue eyes focused wholly on me, I found myself instead distracted by the broad expanse of his back and the muscles shifting beneath his thin tee.
Living with this man would be a lesson in self-control.
“No, why?”
“Your house is…impressive. And very clean.”
Crew hitched up a shoulder, drying his hands on a tea towel that he draped haphazardly over his shoulder before turning to face me fully, leaning his hips and palms against the counter behind him.
“My dad died when I was young,” he began, and I gasped.
“I’m sorry.”
He waved me off. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.” Despite his nonchalance, his voice cracked a little bit, like the words were still hard to say out loud. “Mom was trying to raise this crazy brood of children, you know? Both Owen and Trey, my two oldest brothers, were gone by then, and Aria was a little girl, so Lane, the twins, and I picked up the slack where we could. Admittedly, we were hellions as we got older, but we did what we could to make her life as easy as possible at home.”
There was a hauntedness that took over his expression as he spoke, and I hated how well I understood the emotions swirling within him behind it.
I understood that kind of loss all too well.
“What was it like growing up with so many siblings?”
“Loud,” Crew said with a laugh. “And smelly.”
I chuckled with him. “How old is your sister?”
“Twenty-four. ”
Almost the same age Lola had been when she died, though my sister would’ve been forty by now. Would she have a family of her own? Would I have a brother-in-law and nieces or nephews running around? All the what-ifs and what-could’ve-beens haunted me daily.
Oblivious to the fact that doing so pressed on an old wound, Crew asked, “Do you have any siblings?”
A pang echoed in my chest. I didn’t blame him for the question, but I hated talking about it, hated how, after all these years, it still felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest anytime she came up in conversation. I missed her more than I could ever accurately express, the pain that of a phantom limb I’d never get back, but talking about her only made it worse.
I owed Crew something though, especially after he shared about his father, so I said, “I had a sister.”
“Had?”
“She died.” Then I choked on a disbelieving laugh. “In a fire of all things.”
Crew blinked slowly, as if filing this information away and fitting it into the picture he saw when he looked at me. Thankfully, there was no pity in his gaze. Only assessment, like he was peeling back my layers to reach my soft center. Unearthing more of me until he found the woman I was buried beneath my hardened shells.
I didn’t have the energy to be picked apart, though—not now, not ever—so I got to my feet and asked, “Is there somewhere I can spread out my files and get some work done?”
Crew gave his head a little shake as though coming back to the surface after falling into a trance. With a jerk of his chin, he led me down the hall to his office, the only other room I’d bothered to explore when I arrived yesterday except the common areas and the guest bedroom.
One side of the space contained built-ins that housed a collection of books and framed photographs. They were painted a deep green that contrasted beautifully with the creamy color of the rest of the room. Along the opposite wall was a large wooden desk with an Apple monitor and a closed laptop resting in the center. A map of what appeared to be Dusk Valley hung beside it, random locations highlighted in red. A whiteboard next to it had random dates and notes that made no sense to me.
I moved closer, curious about the map.
“What is this?” I asked Crew.
“Dangerous buildings in town. The city has been working for years to demolish them and rebuild, but the townsfolk are stubborn about their tax dollars being used for something that doesn’t directly benefit them. As a firefighter, I have to know where all of these buildings are in case we get called to a scene at one. It changes our approach.”
“But why have it in your home?”
One corner of Crew’s mouth twitched. “My job doesn’t stop when I’m off shift, Aspen.”
“Fair enough,” I said, appreciating his dedication to keeping the people of Dusk Valley safe.
Then I returned my attention to the map.
Honestly, I had no idea what I was looking at. I hadn’t spent enough time here to truly grasp the layout of the town and recognize landmarks in nothing but a line drawing, but I knew where my accident had occurred. My eyes traced the streets until I found the building.
“It had recently sold,” Crew said suddenly, his words tickling the back of my neck. He’d moved closer without me realizing, standing over my right shoulder.
I tapped the map. “The…place?”
He hummed in agreement, knowing what I meant. “The owners of the shop relocated to a larger building on the other side of town.”
“The place with the impound lot?”
“Yeah. They’re the only shop in town unless you want to drive the hour up to Boise, so they were able to expand. The structure of the old place was sound, but a gasoline-induced fire is a beast. Took us hours to knock it down after the roof collapsed.”
His statement pulled me up short. “The fire was started by gas?”
“You didn’t know?”
I scoffed. “I’m only a vic. No one tells me anything.”
I rotated slightly so I could look at Crew out of the corner of my eye, and his palm came up to cup and scratch at the back of his neck—a nervous gesture if I ever saw one.
The question was, what did he have to be nervous about?
“Are you sure we should be discussing this?” he asked.
Oh .
He was worried about hurting me, dredging up trauma I’d rather leave buried.
But I learned a long time ago that the only way around it was through it, and while nightmares plagued my sleep, I knew I’d survive this like I’d survived everything else life had thrown at me if I just kept moving.
“I’m going to keep chasing this fucker,” I replied, a vehemence behind my words that surprised even me. “Don’t sugar coat anything for the sake of my feelings. This might be personal now, but I won’t let that get in the way of doing my job.”
Crew sighed, as if weighing his next words.
“Yes, the fire was started by gasoline. When my crew and I entered the shop, there was a trail from the door that led me right to you. From the smell of it, we ultimately deduced diesel fuel was used.”
“Have you managed to run down any leads?”
Crew shook his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not my jurisdiction, and my brother isn’t exactly the most forthcoming man on the planet.”
I snorted. “Understatement of the century. ”
He grinned and said, “Let’s grab your files and get you set up.”
Wordlessly, I followed him out, and ten minutes later, I was set up in front of his desktop computer, the fire department’s reports and my notes from the Vicky Lee and Roger Stanhope incidents spread out before me. As a firefighter, Crew had access to some government servers I didn’t, and it allowed me to get a bit more background on the two than what Mrs. Lee and the newspapers could provide.
As a former journalist, this killer not being national news was a wonder. Being active for over forty years was…impressive, to say the least. I wasn’t about to give the guy any props, but the fact that he’d managed to elude law enforcement for so long told me a number of things, namely that he was both highly intelligent and highly organized.
When I ran out of leads I could follow from the desk and my eyes swam from staring too long at the computer screen, I got up, stretched, and headed to the guest room to change. After throwing on another pair of linen pants and loose-fitting tee—my injuries wouldn’t be able to handle tighter or rougher materials for a while yet—I went in search of Crew.
I called his name, but received no response. He wouldn’t have left without telling me, so I strained my ears for any hint of him.
I felt more than heard bass pulsing through the floor. Moving around the living room and down the hall toward the mudroom, I followed the beat as it grew louder until I stood in front of a door open at the top of a descending staircase. The words became clear then, some old Breaking Benjamin song providing the backdrop to whatever Crew was doing down there.
The sight I found when I reached the bottom stole my breath.
Crew Lawless.
Shirtless.
Dripping sweat .
Pumping a barbell over his chest in time with the drumbeat of the song.
Mesmerized, I could only stand there like a creep and watch.
Fuck, he was glorious. Every inch of his body was honed and lined with strength. His biceps, shoulders, and pecs rippled deliciously with each movement. The muscles of his abdominals were carved out beautifully, and I counted eight before they flattened and disappeared into the waistband of his shorts, along with a thin trail of hair, the same shade as the dusting on his chest. I was gripped by the sudden urge to approach him, straddle his lap where his obliques cut into that sexy ass V at his hips, and lick him clean.
Shaking my head to clear those filthy images—ones I could never act on—I called his name.
He quickly racked the bar and sat up, huffing and puffing but eyes scanning me for any sign of danger or distress.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I was just coming to tell you I’m going to head into town.”
“For what?” he asked, lifting a towel that rested at his bare feet, and—Jesus Christ, he worked out barefoot? Why the fuck was that so sexy?—used it to wipe his face.
“I want to go to the library and look through yearbooks and old editions of the newspaper. Get a better feel for the victims and what else was going on in town around the times they were murdered.”
“Do you want company?” He stood, his chest level with my eyes, and I noticed with a jolt that one of his nipples had a silver hoop glinting in it.
This man was a goddamn wet dream, and I had to start looking for other accommodations immediately. There was no way I had enough control to keep my hands to myself if I was forced to live with him for any length of time. Not when I’d been celibate for as long as I had .
My toys got the job done fine, thank you very much, but I knew even one night in bed with Crew Lawless would ruin me for anyone and anything else forever.
“No, I’m good,” I said quickly. “I was thinking I’d stop at the store and pick up groceries before I came back? Restock what I used on the soup.”
“You don’t have to do?—”
I cut him off before he could finish. “I want to. Just text me a list.”
Then I hightailed it out of there before I did something we’d both regret.
The Dusk Valley Public Library was a gorgeous brick building attached to the high school by an enclosed walkway. More spacious than I expected, the entire back half was dominated by a media lab that had study corrals, laptops people could check out for use, and a bank of desktop computers. Row and rows of books filled the front half, the shelves pristine white and open to allow plenty of airflow.
An older woman—mid-sixties, if I had to guess—sat behind the help desk wearing a sweater and skirt set in a soft pink shade that made her creamy skin appear like porcelain. A name tag pinned to her chest read Ginny .
“Hello dear,” she said warmly when I approached. “What can I help you with?”
“I was hoping to look at microfiche of old newspaper articles.”
“Are you looking for something specific?”
I nodded. “I’m Aspen McKay—” I began, ready to launch into my spiel of who I was and why I was there, but Ginny stopped me .
“Oh dear,” she breathed. “I am so sorry for what happened to you.”
“Thank you. So that’s why I’m here. I’m looking into the case, and I was hoping to comb through old coverage on the previous incidents and victims. And I was also wondering if it’d be possible to look through old yearbooks dating back to the first victims.”
Without a word, Ginny came around the counter and wrapped me into a warm, floral-scented hug. Inexplicably, my nose stung with the warning of tears, and I sniffed loudly as I hugged her back.
This sort of comfort was something I’d been sorely lacking in recent years, and it amazed me how much better such simple contact from another human being made me feel.
When she pulled back, she cupped my cheeks and said, “Whatever you need, dear. Follow me.”
She led us into the media lab and over to an iMac in the corner. “This is where we keep all the Gazette issues,” she said proudly as she pulled out the chair for me. “Dating all the way back to its conception in 1920.”
A low, deeply impressed whistle escaped me. “That’s incredible.”
“It hadn’t been easy,” she said with a chuckle. “It took me probably ten years to track down every single issue, and another two for us to digitize them. But I’m very proud of the work we’ve done. Not many towns can say they have these kinds of records.”
I nodded in agreement. “I used to work at the Sun Times , so I can say with certainty even big city papers aren’t as meticulous as this.”
Ginny positively beamed. “Get yourself settled, dear. Feel free to print anything you need. When you’re done, I’ll have those yearbooks waiting for you at that table over there,” she promised, indicating a spot across the room.
“Thank you for your help, Ginny. I really appreciate it. ”
“Whatever it takes,” she assured me. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I’m tired of being afraid I might be next—or one of my daughters or granddaughters.”
Then she disappeared, leaving me to my work.
From my backpack, I withdrew my notepad that had all the dates of the murders written down. Starting with the first back in 1985, I was greeted by the front page of the Dusk Valley Gazette with an impossible-to-miss headline.
PROM KING AND QUEEN brUTALLY SLAIN
Accompanying the story was a photo of the car in which Vicky Lee and Roger Stanhope had died. It had been so badly burned, I couldn’t discern the color or even the make and model. A quick scan of the article revealed it to be an AMC Pacer, and it had belonged to Roger. The car was a two-door compact, and Vicky and Roger had been found wrapped around each other in the back seat. I also knew from Crew that the two had sustained bullet wounds to the head which ultimately killed them.
Giving in to a brief shiver over the knowledge that this same person had their hands on me, could’ve easily ended my life, I printed the article and kept moving.
After that, the MO of the killer changed, first moving from the car—which I now recognized as a crime of opportunity—to house fires they tried to pass off as accidents, eventually graduating to abandoned commercial buildings. Seemingly random incidents save for a single similarity: they all happened on prom night.
There was something strange about that to me. Why would this person so obviously connect their crimes together when altering the date of their attacks would’ve kept the police off their trail entirely?
By the time I reviewed the coverage for the final victim before myself—Erica Hughes, murdered three years ago at the age of twenty when she’d been home from college for the weekend—a headache was building behind my eyes, and the sky beyond the windows of the library had turned hazy and golden. Checking my watch, I realized how late it had gotten.
Gathering my things, I headed back toward the information desk, where Ginny bustled around, preparing to lock up for the evening.
“I’m so sorry I made you get all those yearbooks out for nothing,” I said sheepishly as I shifted my bag around in search of my wallet.
“It’s really no problem dear. You can come back anytime. I’ll set them aside so they’re ready for when you do.”
I took a ten out of my bill fold and stuffed it into the tip jar. Though for her kindness alone, I owed her much more.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I blurted.
The woman was already as grandmotherly as it got, her entire countenance softened further with my question.
“Everyone deserves a helping hand, dear. I’m sorry to hear the people of this town have been…shall we say, less than welcoming? But I promise, you’ll find nothing but support here.”
Before I could stop myself, I reached for her, hugging her as tightly as possible while mindful of her frailty. Something told me Ginny was stronger than she looked, though.
“I’ll be back soon,” I promised when I pulled away.
“I look forward to it.”
Then I moved toward the exit. Thanks to my ordeal, I was more than a little wary about exiting buildings alone this close to nightfall. Sunlight still painted the horizon, but the shadows were lengthening, so I withdrew my taser from my bag as I crossed the lot to Black Betty.
I only relaxed fully when I was behind the wheel, doors locked and on my way back to Crew’s.