Seventeen
Online betting apps even began to take bets about which canceled person might be the next killed.
—Crime Hive podcast
Marjorie came back with a full platter of food, which shocked me because—uh, when did we order again?
I didn’t remember getting a menu, much less deciding on food.
But I was feeling foggy and tipsy, my brain swimming in wine.
Had I had one glass or two? Russo had been constantly filling it, so I realized it was impossible to say.
“Did you order for me?” I asked.
“Of course,” Russo said as Marjorie set down a crusted whitefish in front of me and a bloody bone-in rib eye in front of Russo.
I glanced at the fish. I would’ve preferred a steak, but I was having trouble mustering up enough focus to really care. My phone pinged. I glanced at the face. It was Peter Neufeld, Jared’s attorney.
Olga Duncan’s family confirmed it’s her necklace you found at the cabin. Please send it to me and I can get it run through a lab.
“Everything okay?” Russo asked.
I tucked my phone away.
“Yeah,” I said. I wanted to tell Russo about Olga Duncan, but my brain wasn’t working. I was having a hard time hanging on to my train of thought. I felt foggy and weird.
“Any idea where Spider-Man might be staying?” Russo asked, taking a mouthful of bloody steak.
“No clue,” I said, trying to focus on Russo. I was buzzed. Definitely buzzed. I took a bite of fish, wishing I had carbs on my plate that would help soak up some of the alcohol. The thin filet and the three sprigs of asparagus weren’t going to hack it. “Oscar is looking for him.”
“These small-town yahoos,” Russo said. “He probably doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”
“Oscar knows what he’s doing,” I said. At least, I hoped he did.
We ate a few moments in silence, and I watched as Russo wolfed down most of his plate. He must’ve been hungry. Midway through my meal, I lost my appetite and began pushing the fish around. I was starting to feel lightheaded. I dropped my fork on the floor.
“You okay, kid?” Russo asked, concerned.
“Wine’s going to my head,” I said and bent down to get the fork. That was a mistake. The blood rushing to my temples made me see stars.
“Let’s get you home,” Russo said, and he signaled for the waitress.
Outside the restaurant, I stood in front of Russo in the mostly empty parking lot. Russo had paid for dinner. I’d thanked him, wondering again why the wine was hitting me so hard. Eating didn’t even help. Far from soaking up any alcohol, the meal only seemed to fuel the lightheadedness.
A lone streetlight lit the barren sidewalk, and behind us, the restaurant’s interior lights flicked off.
It might just be eight thirty, but the staff had been waiting on us to leave, since we’d been the last customers in the restaurant.
Most places closed by nine in the off-season.
Our bellies were full, but Russo stared at me like he was still hungry.
I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, and he steadied me.
“Whoa, there. You okay, kid?”
Why was I so destroyed by a little bit of wine?
“Fine,” I said, wondering if Marjorie had snuck vodka into it.
My gut told me something was off. Irene—and her idol, Gavin de Becker—always said to listen to those instincts. When it comes to survival, your gut was never wrong. But my head was swimming and it was hard to concentrate.
My phone pinged, too, an incoming message. I glanced at it and saw it was from Jared’s attorney.
I need to talk to you. Call me.
I blinked at it. This was important. But my brain was set to slow motion.
“Something more important than me?” Russo asked.
“No,” I said, and tucked my phone into my pocket.
Russo stared at me silently for a beat, his clear blue eyes unreadable. I felt like a specimen under a microscope, and I desperately wanted to know what he was thinking.
“Come here,” he commanded, voice low.
“I just…” I glanced around the empty parking lot and up to the darkened restaurant.
I felt exposed, suddenly. Alone. Also, my normally game-for-anything self didn’t feel so game for anything.
I just wanted to crawl into bed. Maybe it was because the sidewalk beneath my feet wobbled more than the waves on Lake Sanguis.
“Nobody’s around,” Russo pressed. He reached out then and grabbed my wrist, his thick fingers easily wrapping around it. I could fight him, but I didn’t. I really didn’t want to fight Russo. His strong hands and his habit of spending every other weekend at the boxing ring meant he might win.
He pulled me even closer, but instead of kissing me, as I expected, he dipped his head down to my neck, like a vampire ready to drink.
The move caught me off guard; who went for the neck first?
Now I was staring at the starry sky above our heads and felt even more unsteady on my feet.
The stars above me spun faster than they should have.
Just then, a single pair of headlights shone down the adjacent street. For a second, I feared it was the Jeep Wagoneer, but then the vehicle got closer, and I realized it was Tammy’s minivan.
Great.
News of Russo necking with me in a restaurant parking lot would be all over town tomorrow.
“We’re not alone,” I said, nodding toward the retreating minivan.
“You worried about that?” Russo laughed.
I rubbed my arms. “I’m also cold,” I said. A weak excuse at best. But my heart was thudding in my chest.
“I know ways to warm you up.” Russo lifted his head and met my gaze. “I’ll show you at my place.”
“At Koi? But…” Had he checked into his new room already? How did I not know? My Airstream was wrecked. The police were treating it as a crime scene.
“I kept my original rental,” he said. “So we can go there. It’s secluded. In the woods.”
But I didn’t want to go to the woods. I wanted to go back to Jude’s house.
“I can’t,” I said quickly.
“Why not?” He tugged me closer.
I couldn’t think of a good reason. My head felt like a carousel set to top speed. Damn wine. I tried to take a step, but my knees buckled. Russo’s strong arms grabbed me.
“Whoa, there. That wine went to your head.”
“I’m not a lightweight,” I protested to myself almost as much as to Russo.
“I know,” Russo said, and he dipped down and kissed me again.
His mouth commanded mine, his tongue lashing against my own, as if my mouth were territory he planned to colonize.
Russo was relentless and demanding, and I felt like a boat adrift on a stormy sea.
It took every ounce of will not to tip over.
Everything was happening so fast, and I felt foggy and buzzed.
I couldn’t steady myself. Russo’s hand snaked inside Jude’s flannel and up my cropped tank top, cupping my breast possessively.
I gasped, more from shock than delight. My nipple rose against his palm.
Russo broke the kiss. “You want me, don’t you?” he growled in my ear as he squeezed my nipple hard. His pinch burned, and I flinched.
Did I want him? I wanted to sit down, that’s what I wanted. My head felt like it was floating away from my body, like a helium balloon caught by the wind. I felt unsteady. Maybe it was because the starry night sky was spinning above me.
“You like to meet men on Spark?” Russo challenged me. “You like to take them home?”
Now we were suddenly in sexual role-play in the middle of an open parking lot, where Russo might or might not be sex-shaming me. And, look, I was all for sex games and dirty talk, okay? But something about the timing, about Russo’s tone…
I was missing something.
My mind whirled. Shouldn’t I be flattered? Russo—the man who turned heads wherever he went—wanted me. If I didn’t say yes, Marjorie the waitress would. She’d be happy to leave her panties on the floor of his rental.
And I was flattered. But I also felt overwhelmed. And against all logic, I was getting drunker by the minute. I needed to get my bearings.
“Hold on,” I said, trying to move away from Russo’s hands. They seemed to be everywhere. And they were strong.
Maybe I should just lean into him. Let him take me where he wanted. Maybe if I leaned into him, the world would stop tilting? Maybe I just needed to let Russo hold me up.
“I want you,” Russo told me, flat out, his eyes bright with need.
“You do?” I knew this, didn’t I? Why was my brain not working?
“You didn’t know that you drive me crazy?”
I shook my head.
“You think I’d travel to this inane little lake town to see just anyone?”
“I thought you were after… the Canceled Killer. Didn’t you come here to solve the case?”
Russo shook his head, sharp blue eyes never leaving mine. “I came here for you, Ella. It was always you.” He studied me, all seriousness. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I think I’m falling in love with you.”
I felt a warm rush of jumbled emotions, but mostly I just felt dazed.
“You’re the perfect woman. Feisty. Tenacious. We’d make the perfect couple.”
Would we? Maybe we would. But right now my legs didn’t want to work. I tried to take a step and stumbled again.
“Let’s get you somewhere you can sit.” Russo was now leading me somewhere. We were walking down the sidewalk.
“Where are we going?”
“To my car. You need to sit down.”
My phone rang.
“Don’t answer it,” Russo growled.
But it was Oscar. By some miracle, I managed to put the phone to my ear.
“Ella? Where are you?” Oscar sounded upset. Scared.
“I’m…” My vision seemed to be getting darker. It was harder to put one foot in front of the other.
“Ella. Listen to me. Russo’s not who you think. He’s been suspended from his precinct. He’s under investigation.”
“Wha…?” I couldn’t even form a full word. What was happening to my tongue? It felt so thick. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. My brain struggled to keep up.
“Apparently, he stalked his ex-girlfriend, and she has a restraining order against him. He tried to kidnap her. He is not a good guy, Ella—”
Russo tugged the phone out of my hand and ended the call.
“Wait…” I managed as I lifted my arm to grab my phone back, but my arms were made of lead, and they wouldn’t do what I asked of them.
“That’s enough of that,” he said.
“You—”
“Come on. My car’s right here.”
We turned the corner, and there, sitting right there, plain as day in front of us, was the vintage white Jeep Wagoneer.
Panic slinked down my spine as warning bells pealed in my brain. But my limbs were too slow, too sluggish to do anything about it. I tried to rally, tried to move away, but Russo had me in a vise grip and was half dragging, half carrying me to the SUV.
“Y-you…” I managed, realizing right at that moment, as my sight grew ever dimmer, a circle growing ever smaller, that Russo was the one all along.
Those driving moves? Not a stuntman’s at all.
But a detective’s.
“That wine hitting you hard?” He said it in almost a mocking tone, and that’s when I realized too late he’d drugged my damn drink.
“It was… you? In the Wagoneer?” My voice came out a low groan. My tongue felt like a salted slug.
“Well, I had to bring her out of storage when CPD took back my unmarked police car,” he said matter-of-factly.
I tried to fight him, but my limbs wouldn’t obey. He lifted me into the back seat, where I flopped down on the camel leather.
“Night night, kid,” he said as everything went black.