6. Juliette
Chapter 6
Juliette
T he streetlights painted the detective’s face in streaks of white, shadows sharpening his cheekbones. Handsome… or was he just dangerous?
Juliette knew herself well enough to know the answer. He wasn’t handsome despite the danger; he was handsome because of it. She’d known it for months in that club, and it felt all the more true now. Even after everything she’d been through, her pulse quickened at the sharp angles of his jawline, the cool detachment in his eyes. Her mother used to call it the family curse . Her own father had been the walking definition of a red flag, a motorcycle-riding bad boy who’d ridden off into the sunset when she was ten.
Detective Duffy stopped at a red light, the glow spilling into the car like blood, a hue far too close to the gore on Jason’s face. The memory should bother her… but it didn’t. She’d seen worse—far worse. Nothing compared to the first time you held a man’s organs in your hands, even if you were safely surrounded by the cool sterility of the morgue.
How surreal to think that used to be her life. How absurd to think she’d spent years wearing nothing but sensible orthotics. Her arches, still pressed against her cheap heels, throbbed at the thought, a dull ache that faded almost as quickly as it came.
“Tell me about the kiss,” Detective Duffy said, voice low—gruff. Almost… jealous? But that was ridiculous.
She drew her gaze to the windshield, the pavement stretching out like a road to nowhere. “I already told you. He kissed me, I pushed him off, then I went into the locker room.”
“You’d never met him before?”
“No, he was just some creep. There are lots of them at the club.”
“Shots fired,” he said.
Her chest tightened, but the upturned corner of his lip told her that he wasn’t offended. Maybe he should be, even if she didn’t lump him in with the other creeps. Still, there were moments when she thought she saw a flicker of arousal in his gaze—or the faint stretch of fabric over his groin.
Her lower belly tightened, and she pushed the thought aside. It’s just a dumb bad-boy crush. And now that she knew he was a cop, it was in her best interests to forget about him entirely.
How had she let herself get talked into this car?
When the detective had asked if she needed a ride home, she could have said no. Even his partner had frowned, like he was suspicious about Detective Duffy’s intentions. But turning down a ride home in the middle of the night might seem suspicious, and a ride to her motel felt less threatening than a ride to the precinct.
Plus, he’d already shown some hints that he wanted to help her. He hadn’t said a word about her washing the blood from her hands—he should have. He hadn’t refuted her story about him walking past in the alley either, though it was clear his partner didn’t believe it. Could she convince him—subtly—that they could help one another?
That’s why she was really here. She needed to assess the situation, buy herself enough time to vanish. And she couldn’t do it walking home alone, guessing at his motivations. If she was right about who had murdered Jason, she didn’t have much time to?—
“Maybe you’d seen him around the club?” he asked, and she paused, dragging her focus back to the conversation.
“Not that I remember. But you can ask the other girls. I just work behind the bar, so I don’t interact much with the… patrons.”
“You interact with me.”
Interact? Is that what he called watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking, turning away when she looked back?
“I pour your drinks,” she said. “But I didn’t know your name until today.”
“I knew yours.”
She frowned. Did he? And why did that make her feel warm and fuzzy inside? Just because a man wanted to know a half-naked woman’s name didn’t mean he was on the up-and-up, and it certainly didn’t mean he respected her.
Be logical, Juliette—you can’t afford to be an idiot.
She tugged her sparkly silver skirt down, glad she’d been able to get most of the blood off the sequins, and said, “I don’t remember telling you my name.”
“I heard one of your coworkers address you.”
“One of the strippers, you mean.”
He cocked an eyebrow, but she went on, “Exotic performers, dancers, they don’t take offense when referred to by those terms. It’s the moralists and puritanical jackoffs who feel compelled to use euphemisms. It’s a legitimate and respectable job. Fuck the negative connotations.”
This time, the pause was longer. “Well, I’m very sorry for being such a judgmental prick, Ms. Crandall. I’ll remember that for the future.”
She swallowed hard. Oops . That’s what she called lying low? “Sorry, Detective. It’s been a long night. I’m sure you understand that.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. And call me Ronan.”
She nodded mutely, dragging a shaky breath into her lungs. She’d never been good at demure, but she wasn’t usually so dumb.
Just keep your mouth shut, Juliette. The club would be closed while the police investigated, but then Waylon would be back, and she could pop in and get the money he owed her. As it was, she didn’t even have enough for a bus ticket. There were few places that let you work for cash without a social security number, and all she had was a shitty fake ID: Jennifer Crandall. Who would cease to exist within the week.
But she could only run if she got the police to cross her off their suspect list.
If she was a suspect and she ran, they’d come after her—they’d send her photo out to other precincts, put out APBs. Jennifer Crandall wasn’t in danger. But Juliette Graves definitely was if anyone found out she was still alive. And if they caught her, locked her away so Daniel couldn’t play his game… her mother was as good as dead.
And they’d definitely lock her up. If not for this murder, for another one.
She took another deep breath and let it out slowly. She’s okay, she thought to herself. Mom’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay. Right now, she’s safe—unlike me.
“Are you sure you heard a man’s voice?” he said, the car purring as he maneuvered up the road. “I mean, is it possible that the killer is a woman?”
“Well, I mean, the voice I heard was really low.” She covered the lie by leaning the back of her head against the seat. Her insides felt like they were melting into the heated chair. “If the killer was female, she’d be more likely to use a blunt force object or poison, but the latter wasn’t exactly convenient in this circumstance…” She trailed off at the shrewd look in his eye.
Juliette clamped her lips shut. The way he was asking her questions in that silky voice felt more like a conversation than an interrogation, but that was exactly what this was. She’d been interrogated enough times to know that he was baiting her—and she was falling for it.
“I agree with you,” he said. “In theory. But if she knew the victim, saw him kissing you, reacted in a jealous rage… maybe it was the woman in the office with your boss.”
Fuck . Was he suggesting that she’d seen this woman stab Jason and had let her get away? Or that the woman had snuck up on Jason after Juliette left? She couldn’t exactly ask, and Waylon’s words were ringing in her brain— You didn’t see shit, Jenny.
“There was no one in the office with Waylon. Not that I saw.”
“Does he usually take his dick out when he’s in there alone?”
There was no accusation in his voice—just curiosity. “Yeah, I think jerking his gherkin is probably his biggest pastime. Thank god I’ve never walked in on that tiny pickle party.”
Ronan snorted. A half smile. “One of your… stripper friends said that she heard Waylon arguing with the victim. Do you think that might have been the argument you heard?”
What? There had been no argument at all—dead silence until Jason hit the ground.
But she shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be positive.”
Ronan shifted in the seat. His elbow didn’t quite brush hers, but she felt the heat of his skin through his suit jacket, little tingles of electricity running up through her shoulder. It seemed that being starved for affection was making her body react insanely to any hint of kindness.
She needed to get control of herself. She didn’t know that he was kind. She was sure that he was a cop, probably a dirty cop with the way he tossed that money into their lockers. And Shonda… the last time anyone had seen her was with him.
Juliette shifted against the window, away from his heat. Her lungs expanded. Her heart settled. Paranoid. She was being paranoid.
“I also hear that your boss gambles—a lot. That bookies are often hanging around. Do you think the victim might have been there in that capacity?”
What the hell? Where was he getting this information? But if that was true… could the altercation really have been over a gambling debt? Was it possible that this wasn’t about her at all?
“I honestly have no idea. I’m not sure I’d be able to tell a bookie from some other lecherous asshole.”
Ronan hit the blinker, his jaw tightening. “None of the pieces of this story make sense together. No money was taken. I think our victim was there for you, and I know he didn’t follow you to the back. Your lipstick was on his mouth, which is damning. But the other women say the vic had nothing to do with you, that he was arguing with Waylon. And neither you nor your boss saw anyone else in that room or the alley, but the back door was wide open. We have no murder weapon. And why would anyone wait to enter a club packed with witnesses to stab a man?”
Her heart locked in her chest. Brittany hadn’t told them that Jason asked for her. But Ronan was right about the lipstick.
“When you put it like that… it does seem stupid to kill him there. Even the alley would have been better.” She should feel something for Jason—feel sad or even sorry that he was dead.
But all she felt when she imagined his body was concern about what his presence in the club meant. For her own well-being.
“Perhaps the killer chose the location for another reason.” He glanced over. “Does anyone have it out for you, Jenny?”
She blinked. “What?”
“I’m just thinking aloud here, but if you had nothing to do with the murder, if you didn’t kiss him as a distraction?—”
Her heart launched into her throat. “No, I’d never?—”
“Then someone waited until after he was covered in your lipstick to plunge a knife into his heart. I’m just wondering if anyone out there hates you enough to cause you trouble. To make you look guilty. Maybe a jealous ex?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “No,” she said. A blatant lie.
“What about Waylon?”
“He didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t have a drop of blood on him—you saw him right after.”
“Fair enough. But I don’t think either of you is being completely honest with me. So… does your boss have something on you that would make you want to protect him? Or whoever was in that office with him? I can’t imagine that dickhead earned your loyalty without blackmail.”
She leveled her gaze at him. “What do you think he might have? The knowledge that I work in a strip club? You think he’ll tell my mother?” She forced a smile.
Ronan shrugged. “What would Mommy and Daddy say about that?”
She laughed, as she assumed was expected. He didn’t. His gaze darkened, then he glanced at her chest.
The scar pulsed , pulsed , pulsed —bright and sharp. The scar that had ruined her for anyone else. Which had been exactly the point.
But she didn’t see disgust in Ronan’s gaze. Something warmer—something she’d thought was desire in the club.
“Do you… like scars?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Why the fuck had she asked him that?
“I don’t like the pain that caused them,” he said, his eyes carefully focused on the road. “But a scar doesn’t detract from someone’s desirability if that’s what you mean. What matters most is in here.” He tapped his temple. “Some of us have scars in there, too, in places that don’t heal over.”
Her chest was wrapped in a vise—she could barely breathe.
He pulled to a stop at a red light and turned to face her. “Are you in danger, Ms. Crandall?”
Yes . But she said, “I don’t think so.” And she hoped it was true. Because though Ronan might believe that his badge would protect him, the man she was afraid of had murdered officers in the past. If provoked, she had no doubt that he’d do it again.
She really hadn’t seen what had happened to Jason—she’d told Ronan the truth about that. She hadn’t even seen whoever Waylon was with. As of now, there was no way to tell whether this was about her.
But if it was… she couldn’t let them catch the killer. If they found him, he’d beat the charges—he always did. But they’d also find her.
Hopefully, Jason had died over a gambling debt or just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A gang initiation, maybe. The senseless crimes, the ones without motive, were always the hardest to solve—she’d seen that before.
But the pit in her belly was telling her this wasn’t some random act of violence. She’d met Jason the night before—and she’d had a reason for walking away. She’d been suspicious then that he might have approached her at Daniel’s behest. And now… he was dead.
Earlier today, Brittany had accused her of being paranoid—she’d thought it herself just minutes ago.
But just because she was paranoid didn’t mean someone wasn’t after her.