CHAPTER NINE
I don’t hang around to appreciate the fact that Junior has the good manners to clean up after himself or—considering my thoughts on Samantha, I’m going to go out on a limb and say—herself.
Nor do I let myself linger on the fact that this person is already my stalker.
And maybe the cleanup job was just Junior messing with my head as part of her stalker duties, but maybe, just maybe, I’ve outsmarted Junior, and she’s worried that she left a print behind.
It’s a thought that carries me back inside the house, where I secure the property and rush to the bathroom.
On my way, I dial the security company and request camera installation, but it’s apparently too early for them to actually help me.
And whatever the case, I’m doubtful I’ll end up with cameras in place before I leave town, but I want them installed no matter what.
I’m living across the country. I should have already ensured I had a bird’s-eye view from afar.
It’s a thought that stops me in my tracks, my brow furrowing.
Why wasn’t Junior worried that I had cameras?
Perhaps she simply covered up with a scarf or hoodie in case I did, but what if Junior already knew I had no cameras?
Samantha, being close to Andrew, could have found out in even a casual conversation that Andrew didn’t know was plotted to extract information.
Bottom line, I think, rushing down the hallway again: I need those damn cameras in place, and really, truly, Junior might think she’s driving me out of town, but she’s wrong.
She’s ensured that I’m here to stay until I can deal with her.
Whatever the fuck that has to mean. I hit the bathroom and start stripping, contemplating exactly what that means, with no good answer.
By the time I’ve showered, I’m rather delighted with the prospect that while Junior is trying to fuck with my head, I’m already fucking with hers or I wouldn’t be getting so much attention.
She doesn’t want to expose my secret. She wants to keep me from exposing hers.
And what is that secret? I’m intrigued at the idea of finding out.
A thought that has me hurrying to dry my hair, a color that this town would call mousy brown now that I’ve let my highlights grow out, but I call it just the way God made me.
And if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.
That said, I still like my girly makeup, and I dare to use what I have left in my bathroom drawer, which I hope like hell hasn’t expired and leaves me in hives or some shit like that.
Whatever the case, I use it, and I do so without the benefits of coffee, which probably means once I get into the sunlight, I’ll look like the seven-year-old niece I don’t have did my face for me.
Lord help me, I shudder to imagine Andrew and Samantha having kids.
I mean, would she get a babysitter to go fuck Kane?
Irritated with that thought, I toss down the pale-pink lipstick, smooth down my hair, and head to the closet, where I ignore the expensive pantsuits and dresses hanging here and there, ones I’d adored when I belonged in this town.
I don’t belong now, and I don’t want to belong here anymore.
Exactly why I toss on a robe, grab my suitcase from the car, and drop it in the center of the closet.
Opening it up, I pull out my Express-brand black jeans, and an “LA Rocks” black T-shirt, which declares me an outsider.
Once I’m dressed, I reach for my UGG sneakers in my bag and pause before tossing them in the corner.
Damn it. Outsiders don’t get squat from these arrogant, self-absorbed assholes.
I resist giving up my Express jeans, but I instead pull a black T-shirt from a local charity event I’d taken part in way back when off a hanger and put it on.
From there, I choose knee-high expensive-ass Chanel boots and a black Chanel purse to match, along with, you guessed it, a Chanel blazer, bypassing the full trench coat in the corner.
My best accessory by far is the one that cannot be seen: my ankle holster, where my service weapon is hidden beneath my jeans.
My second best is the badge clipped to my waist that tells everyone in this town to skip all questions and let me do the judging, not them.
On the way to the garage, I dial my doughnut-loving tech expert we all call “Tic Tac,” because, well, we do. I really have no answer other than that. “Holy hell, Lilah,” he answers as I slide into my rental. “Do you know what time it is in LA?”
“Party time?”
“Bedtime, Lilah,” he bites out. “It’s time for me to go back to sleep.”
“I need stuff.”
“I have nightmares where you are on autorepeat, saying, ‘I need stuff. I need stuff.’ And you know what I say?”
“Anything you want, my queen?”
“I say, ‘Fuck you, Lilah.’”
I purse my lips. “Hmmm. Well. Someone needs coffee. I’ll e-mail you details on the reports I need, but I’m also express-mailing you fingerprints to analyze. And this is the important part. Run them, but keep them off the books.”
“You know the risk I take—”
“You know you owe me.”
“I’m way too tired to have you holding me hostage.”
“There was another murder waiting on me when I got here.”
“There’s always a murder where you are, Lilah.”
“Same MO as those two murders I’ve been working there, and the one in Manhattan, too.”
“Like I said. Murder follows you. E-mail me what you need.” He hangs up.
It’s a thing for me now, I guess. Men hang up on me.
I shrug and start the car, my destination a little mail joint I know has a drop box.
From there, I’ll down coffee, and maybe, just maybe, I might head to the police station, where my brother and father will make me wish for whiskey that I can’t handle.
It’s a good plan, except for one thing: the mail joint doesn’t have a drop box anymore and doesn’t open for an hour and a half.
Spying a diner I know well, I head inside, thankful I know the food but none of the staff.
Huddled in a corner booth, it’s not long before I’m working on a second cup of coffee with my case files in front of me.
Over and over, I flip through the victim photos, lingering on the tattoo, trying to come up with a reason that one of the victims has it and the others do not but reaching only one conclusion: if this were a serial killer, they’d all fit some sort of formula, and they do not.
These people don’t live close, work close, or have the same hair color or age range.
They don’t even have similar jobs. Yet, they must have a link that I haven’t found.
To me, though, this lack of an obvious connection says to me that all the victims are on a hit list. They couldn’t have been just anyone that fit a profile—they had to be these specific people.
If I want to find my killer, I need to find the angry bird picking off players, and there is only one lead I have on that person.
The tattoo. And I only know one person who might know what it means.
While dropping off the print, I hear my phone keep ringing.
Ignoring my brother’s ten freaking calls, I drive toward the castle on the ocean side that is Kane Mendez’s sprawling complex and park among a cluster of a dozen high-end vehicles.
I don’t want to be here, but deep down, when I brought up that tattoo in LA to Murphy, I knew this is where I’d end up.
I knew he’d be where I’d find my answers, and the truth is, I’ve needed those answers for a very long time.
My phone rings again, and when it’s once again Andrew, I groan and just take the damn call.
“I’m not going to make the press conference that I assume I already missed,” I say, based on the time.
“You were supposed to come here this morning. We talked about this.”
“I did you a favor. The FBI is less important if I’m not seen or heard.”
“The news that you’re here and wearing a badge is already buzzing around town.”
“Because you held a press conference,” I say.
“The big city has made you forget small-town politics. By the time your head hit the pillow, the town knew you were here and wearing a badge. Sis. Damn it. I know my town. If you’re going to operate in it, you need to follow my rules.”
“Work your case, Andrew. I’m trying to do some fact-checking and get out of here.”
“I don’t want you to get out of here, Lilah. You know that. We’re talking about this—you, me, the case, and a whole lot more—at Dad’s for dinner tonight. And if you think about not showing, I will hunt you the fuck down.” And with that declaration, he, of course, hangs up.
Sighing a loud, obnoxious sigh, I open the door and climb out, a chill in the air promising winter is near, the water is cold, and the bulk of the tourists are thankfully staying the fuck home.
Wishing for that trench coat I’d left back in my closet, I head for the main castle, which has two smaller, more traditional buildings hugging the sides.
A wooden bridge covering a manmade moat is my path to the main arched entrance.
I cross it, wondering whether Kane is watching my approach or has been alerted in some way that I’m here.
Hell. He might have someone following me.
The bastard is a control freak who has his hand in everything.
Well, except me. I fixed that. And I fully intend to have it stay fixed, even though I know good and well that is a statement he’s about to test.
Entering the lobby, stone beneath my feet, a towering ceiling above, I walk to the reception desk, an odd, triangle-stone setup that demands attention, much like the man who chose the design.
I walk toward the receptionist, a pretty brunette in her twenties, another one I don’t know.
I’m liking this trend of knowing no one.
I know it can’t last, but a girl can wish.