12. Juliette
Chapter 12
Juliette
J uliette stared, her heart in her throat. Ronan looked pale under the bluish fluorescent glow of the morgue lights but just as gorgeous as he’d been when he was watching her in the window—broody yet dangerous.
And especially dangerous now.
Juliette swallowed hard. She thought she’d be able to walk in under the guise of assessing reconstructive work on the body—“I’m here from Silverbrook Memorials.”
She’d found Silverbrook the same way she’d found Jason’s birthday: social media. His mother had posted the funeral home information with the date “to be determined.” When Juliette worked in the coroner’s office, mortuary representatives occasionally dropped by—just enough for it to seem routine. She’d even waited until late afternoon when morgue admissions usually spiked. While that alone wouldn’t make them busy enough to brush her off, she’d thought the bus accident on her police scanner would have kept the staff too preoccupied to question her.
She had underestimated Ortega.
“My friend!” the medical examiner boomed, lifting the brain from the scale. “You said you wanted to be kept abreast of the Mercer situation. This young woman wanted to assess his injuries for, quote, ‘restorative work.’ I told her he had no injuries that might require such intervention, but she insisted.”
Ronan cocked his head, eyes narrowed.
When had Ortega even called him? The only time the doctor had left the room was… when a colleague had flagged him down in the hall. Damnit . Had she known, she’d have taken the stairs and escaped before Ronan got here.
Now, Ronan would arrest her, take her upstairs, run her fingerprints. And if Daniel’s game was over, she was as good as dead. At best, she’d be locked up in jail, where Daniel could torture her for the rest of her life. And her mother… her mom…
Her throat closed. She could not find the air. What the fuck had she been thinking, coming here? Every muscle in her body was tight with the frantic need to run, to escape.
“It’s okay, Ortega,” Ronan said in that growly voice. “We can show her.”
She blinked. What? He wasn’t going to arrest her? But that wasn’t what he’d said. Her breath hitched, lungs filling with precious oxygen, his quiet confidence a balm against the panic.
Ortega deposited the brain on a stainless tray but did not remove his gloves. “You know where to find him,” he said to Ronan, then went back to his work.
Ronan glanced at her, then headed for the far right side of the room, where metal drawers glinted from floor to ceiling. She followed, debating whether to make a run for it, but she didn’t think herself capable—her legs felt numb. He popped the latch on one of the drawers near the center and rolled it open as she stepped to the other side.
The body was not draped in a sheet as she’d always done in her morgue—Jason Mercer was nude in all of his gray-corpse glory, mouth ajar, flaccid penis lying against his pubic hair. A Y-shaped incision glared from his chest, dark and angry.
She could feel Ronan’s eyes on her as she studied the corpse—at least, she pretended to study it. All she’d wanted was five seconds alone with the body, enough time to open the cell. Now… she couldn’t.
Why was Ronan even letting her do this ? Was he trying to figure out what she wanted? Was she a suspect? Should she cry? Act traumatized by the fact that she’d seen Jason die at her feet?
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I’m cold.”
Ronan blinked. Then he shrugged out of his suit jacket and, with a practiced flick of his wrist, stepped around, wrapping it over her shoulders. It smelled like sandalwood.
“You’re not assessing anyone for restorative work,” he whispered into her hair, and the heat of him made her heart clench—panic or attraction, she couldn’t tell. Maybe both. “How about we take a drive, and you can level with me?”
She nodded, mute. She’d been ready to break out the waterworks, sob that she just wanted to see his face—this man she wasn’t supposed to know—hoping he’d buy trauma or closure as an excuse. But it appeared he wasn’t even going to ask her why she’d come, at least not in front of the medical examiner.
Ronan slid the drawer closed, then headed for the hallway with a backward wave. “Thanks, Ortega!”
“Right on, Detective!”
The walk up the hallway was cold and quick—past another set of bustling exam rooms. None of the people within them looked over as they marched by. And this was not the way she’d come in. Where were they going?
A good rule-following cop wouldn’t leave with her at all—he’d make her sit in an interrogation room. A dirty cop… well, his motivations would be much more complicated.
She forced a breath into too-tight lungs as they turned the corner. The next hallway ended abruptly at a wide freight elevator. Ah, he was taking her out the back way—keeping her from the bullpen. She’d been nervous as hell when she’d walked through the main doors, past all those cops to the elevator, but no one had glanced her way. Until Ortega.
Ronan stepped inside, then hit the button to hold it for her. She paused for a moment—once more weighing her chances of escape on foot—then stepped in after him.
“Why didn’t you tell him?” she asked when the door closed.
He didn’t have to ask who. “One good turn deserves another.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Goddamn it, no .”
His eyebrows hit his hairline.
This wasn’t the right way to go about it, but pent-up adrenaline was racing through her body like lightning. And she had to know why—this didn’t make sense.
But her behavior didn’t make sense either. She’d all but convinced herself to run the second she had her money and had found herself at the police station anyway.
“It wasn’t illegal for you to be in that club,” she said to him now. “There are no city mandates that say cops have special rules—I looked it up. You didn’t do anything wrong. But what I just did, lying to the medical examiner to get into the morgue… it’s egregious. Lying for me could upend your career. You stayed outside my motel room last night when I’m quite sure your skeptical partner would not approve. And you’ve been coming into that club for so long, always watching me?—”
“Why am I stalking you? Is that your question?”
Juliette frowned. Why did he sound ashamed? She was the one who’d stripped down and finger fucked herself to orgasm while he watched. At the thought of that, blood pulsed low in her belly, her nerve endings sparking.
“I never thought you were stalking me,” she said, voice hushed, though they were the only ones here. Yeah, she’d assumed him a voyeur, and once she realized he was a cop, she’d thought him dangerous in a more general sense. But she had never felt any threat directed at her .
The elevator binged open.
The garage was dim compared to the brilliant white lights of the morgue. Juliette squinted, trying to force her eyes to adjust.
“Is your car?—”
He gestured. “It’s in the front.”
She’d been right—he’d taken her out the back way to keep her from the prying eyes of the other officers. He wanted to… protect her.
Or keep me for himself—all to himself.
Her mouth went dry. But she followed him from the parking lot and into the jaundiced afternoon.
“Pretty car,” she said when he popped the locks on a navy-blue Volvo—shiny. The smell of leather was strong inside. “I didn’t… notice so much last night.”
“It’s functional,” he said, climbing into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life.
“Cars usually are, I guess…” But she stiffened when her eyes locked on a stooped gray-haired figure pushing his way through the front doors.
“We had to let him go,” Ronan said when he clocked where she was looking. “We don’t have anything on him.”
As if realizing he was being watched, Waylon’s head snapped their way. His angry eyes lit on hers. They narrowed. But Ronan maneuvered the car through the lot, past her furious boss, and out onto the main road.
“Do you know who… hurt that man?” she forced out.
Without the phone to verify that Jason hadn’t been talking to Daniel, she could only hope that they had another suspect, someone with a reason to kill him.
Please let this be about something else—anything but me.
“I should probably ask you the same thing.”
She swallowed hard. “I… no. I wish I did.”
“His cell phone was at the library earlier today,” he said calmly. “And a few hours later, you were in my morgue. I don’t believe in coincidence.”
The silence stretched, her fists clenched so hard that her fingernails dug divots into her palms—she had no idea what to say, what might help her dig herself out of this hole.
Ronan eased them onto the freeway, late-afternoon sun painting long shadows across the asphalt and turning the bumpers of the other cars into a sea of sparkling metal. The shadows felt longer still when he took an exit, but she was too tense to notice what the road sign said. Either way, she was stuck. This man could put her in jail any time he wanted. But for some reason, he didn’t seem to want to.
Was that good? Or very bad?
“Do I have to check the library cameras?” he said finally, eyes still on the road. “I have Mercer’s call logs on their way from the phone company. Whatever you’re trying to find on that cell, it’s only a matter of time before I have it. And you’re riding shotgun in my car, without handcuffs—play deputy for me. We can help each other here, Jenny.”
That’s not my name. She’d never wanted to hear her real name on someone’s lips so badly. “Deputy, huh?”
He cut his eyes her way, half a smile, then back to the road. “My partner thinks you were a distraction.”
She blinked. “A distraction? What does that even mean?”
“That you kissed Mercer so someone else could sneak up behind him and stab him in the back.”
Her jaw dropped. That was the second time he’d mentioned that theory—definitely a bad sign—but Ronan didn’t seem to notice that she’d stopped breathing. He was busy maneuvering the car onto a two-lane road, maple trees flaring red on either side, the culverts overrun with Queen Anne’s Lace, the grass gone to seed.
She cleared her throat and managed, “Are you actually suggesting that I conspired to kill a man? That my big plan was to let him kiss me, wait for someone else to stab him, and hope that no one noticed?”
Did he really think she had a reason to kill Jason? She did… if he was working for Daniel. But motive or not, she hadn’t killed him, and she’d be damned if she went down for it.
“You could have conspired to kill him—I don’t think you did . I know you went out with him the night before, but one bad date isn’t enough reason to murder someone in cold blood.”
Bile rose in her gorge. “I didn’t kill Jason—I didn’t have anyone else kill him either. I didn’t tell you I knew him because I didn’t want to be a suspect. But I guess I’m a suspect now anyway.”
“So you stole his phone… why?”
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her heart. She couldn’t use erasing her own number as an excuse—she didn’t have a cell, and he’d know it soon enough. And she certainly couldn’t tell him the truth.
“I’m not positive, but I think Jason took a photo of us at the bar. I didn’t want the police to find it.”
“I see.” The words were heavy with skepticism, as they should be—who’d break into the morgue for a single, innocent snapshot?
Ronan pressed harder on the gas.
“I wish I could help, I really do,” she said softly. “But we both know there’s nothing to go on. I saw that room—it was clean. And if you had a better suspect, you wouldn’t have dragged Waylon in.” She fiddled with a thread on her sweater, knotting it before it unraveled. It was too close to the feeling in her head right now— unraveling .
“But Waylon is an asshole,” she went on. “He should be locked up. If not for this, for other things.”
He glanced her way, eyes sharp. “You’re suggesting a frame job? To a cop?”
Her heart spasmed. “No, I mean… I’m just saying that he’s a dick.” Nice save, idiot.
But Ronan didn’t look angry. “Do you have evidence that he should be locked away? Have you ever seen him do anything illegal?”
“Not exactly… but there’s something wrong with him, and you know it the same way I do. You watch him, too.” Actually… “Is he the reason you’ve been coming to the club?” That thought definitely stung.
Ronan hooked a right but didn’t answer. He eased them through a narrow alley between a meat processing plant and… an abandoned milk-bottling factory? No streetlights out here—it’d be pitch-black once night fell.
The air shivered from her lungs. “Where are we going?”
“I want you to feel safe.”
“So, you’re taking me to the middle of nowhere?”
Ronan finally cut the wheel hard left and tapped the car into park. “I didn’t bring you out here to be alone with you. I brought you out here so you’d feel safe from whoever it is you’re so fucking scared of. Because despite what you just said, I know that person isn’t Waylon. And I’m damn sure you’re not scared of me.”
His steel-blue gaze bored into hers, melting her insides. “You wouldn’t strip naked for a man you’re terrified of… would you?”
Her heart fluttered—butterflies in her chest. Butterflies between her legs. Butterflies everywhere.
I am special , a little voice whispered in her head. I am. She knew better than to listen to it, but was it so wrong to want to believe it? Was it so wrong to want one fleeting thing for herself in all these years of misery?
The fluttering in her chest only intensified as the seconds ticked past, his gaze still locked on hers, his clear-eyed sincerity making hope flicker in her chest. But if she let that flicker burst into flame, she couldn’t trust herself to make the right decisions.
And her mother would pay the price. She’d already gone to the morgue, the stupidest thing she could have done, because she’d wanted so badly to stay. Because of him, a dirty cop she hardly even knew.
“You’re running from someone,” he said. “You’re here under an assumed name?—”
“I’m not?—”
He put up a hand. “I don’t give a shit about that. What matters right now is that I’m on your side. I want to protect you.”
“So, I’m just a dumb girl who can’t fend for herself?” The words were defensive, reactionary, but he was right—she’d already tried to save herself. She was breathing, so she’d technically succeeded, but it was arguable whether her current situation could really be called “success” or even “living.” And she certainly didn’t feel safe… not unless she was with him.
“I don’t think you’re dumb,” he said, gravel in his throat. “And I don’t judge you for the line of work you’ve chosen. But I also don’t want you to vanish in the middle of the night because you thought you’d fare better alone.”
“I don’t have enough money to leave until Waylon pays me, anyway.” She dragged her eyes from his.
His gaze was sincere, kind, but eventually, it would edge toward pity. And she didn’t want to see that .
For a moment, all was silent, Juliette studying her clasped hands, Ronan studying her—she could sense his gaze in the fine hairs on the back of her neck.
Finally, Ronan cleared his throat. “Is the person you’re running from the one who killed Mercer?”
“I don’t know.” Her lip quivered, and she ground her teeth to steady it. “I really hope not.” Shut up, Juliette! Shut the fuck up!
“Have you seen this person lately?”
She shook her head, eyes locked on her hands—knuckles white from clenching.
“Who is he? An ex?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Yes, you can—you have to. I can protect you. You can even stay in my guest room while we investigate. He wouldn’t expect that, and Hawthorn Ridge is a good distance from?—”
She shook her head hard enough to make her ears ring. “ No . I can’t. You’d be in danger, and if he wanted to kill me, he’d have done it already.”
But when she met his eyes once more, it felt as if he was looking into her soul—seeing something more than what she was in that stupid tank top, more than she was in a sweater and jeans. The wrapping didn’t matter. Her scars didn’t matter. He thought she was beautiful. Maybe she could believe that, too, if she looked at his face long enough.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said.
Her eyes filled. “He’s insane, Ronan. He once hid in my trunk when I went to a work dinner, spying through a hole in the backseat. If someone else had gotten into that car, anyone he didn’t approve of, if I’d said the wrong thing… he would have shot them dead.”
“You know that because he told you? Or because he killed someone else?”
Both. But she’d already said too much. Her lip was trembling uncontrollably now.
“I don’t want you to die.”
He raised his hand to her face. It was not sexual, just a sincere gesture of assistance, but the heat of his fingertips bled down through her chest.
“I’m a detective. You’re safe with me. You’re definitely safe here, out in the middle of nowhere, without a single prying eye—without cameras.”
“Whether he can see me or not, he probably knows where I am. I don’t even have a cell phone because I don’t want him to be able to track me. Anywhere I go… he has contingency plans. Places he can hide. Unless he wants to be found, you won’t see him coming.”
“And what would make him want to be found?”
Her eyes burned. “Me. I’m the only one he’d risk showing his face to. He’s not threatened by me, but honestly, it feels more like… an addiction. An obsession. He feeds on my fear like a leech.”
She closed her stinging eyes, unable to look at him any longer. “Don’t you understand?” she whispered. “I’ll never be safe with you—with anyone. And you’ll never be safe with me.”
He ran his thumb along her cheekbone—wiping away a tear, prompting her to open her eyes once more.
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He smiled, so confident, so fucking gorgeous.
That was all the motivation she needed to crush her mouth against his.