Chapter 22 #3
He drove to the hotel, doubling back three times to ensure they weren’t being followed.
Once parked, he helped Haven out of the passenger side before the valet could make it to her door.
He took her bag and hustled her into the hotel after giving the keys to the valet, along with a twenty-dollar bill.
He shoved the valet ticket in his pocket.
He wouldn’t be calling for that vehicle anytime soon.
They approached the brightly lit reception desk. “Hello, welcome. Do you have a reservation?” The perky blonde behind the desk asked with a bit too much cheerfulness.
“Yes, Koehler,” Marcus said and reached for his wallet.
“Christian?” she asked and smiled up at him.
He handed her a driver’s license from Virginia. “Yes, thank you.” He smiled at the woman and watched as she flipped her hair back and exposed her neckline, which was a bit too low to be professional.
“How many keys will you need?” She gave a glance in Haven’s direction before looking at him again and batting her fake eyelashes.
“Two.” He put his arm around Haven, who lifted an eyebrow at the woman and then turned to look at him. Obviously, she wasn’t enjoying the woman’s attention on him any more than he was.
He took the keys and signed his poppa’s name.
He’d had the fake ID since Guardian had issued it to him.
He never thought he’d have to use it, but there was a first for everything.
They walked up the stairs to the second floor and found their room.
They entered together, and as one, they searched the room. Cop habit.
Once settled in the room, he stood at the window for a long moment, looking at Nashville laid out below.
It was a city that didn't know about the evil moving through it.
Haven was on the phone with Delvecchio. He could hear the low register of her voice behind him, giving Del what he needed to know.
He stared out of the window and to the horizon beyond.
Somewhere out there a woman was waiting to be found.
Three nails were missing from her hands.
Positioned with care. Arms and ankles crossed, eyes closed.
A message dressed up as a murder, which was still a murder, which was still a woman who had moved through the world in her ordinary way.
She’d been selected and confirmed. She’d been taken because she’d had the right nails and the wrong luck and not because the fucking serial killer had wanted to send Haven a package.
He felt that in a way that went past professional. He turned away from the window.
Haven had ended the call. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her notepad open, writing something, her pen moving in the quick decisive strokes of a woman working a problem. She looked up when he turned.
“Del told me Carver put the flag out,” she said. “We'll know something soon.”
He sat down beside her.
She looked at the notepad. At what she'd written. Then she looked at him. “He killed her for me,” she said. Her words were quiet and heavy. “She's dead because of me.”
“No. That’s wrong. She's dead because of him,” Marcus said.
“I know that.” She looked at her hands. At the French manicure she'd refused to give up because she wasn't going to let him take that from her. “I know that's the correct answer. I know it in my head.” She looked up. “It doesn't sit right, here.” She put her hand over her heart.
He took her other hand and held it in his.
“No,” he said. “It doesn't sit right. It never will. But he’s responsible. Not us.” He had to keep telling himself that, too.
Real people were dead because they were working their best to make this guy show his hand so they could pull him out of the shadows.
She looked at their hands.
Then she looked at the notepad.
“We're going to find him.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Before he gets another chance at me or someone else.”
“Yes,” he said. And then because it was true, he said, “I'm going to make sure of it.”
She looked at him. Then she squeezed his hand.
They worked until two in the morning. When she finally put the notepad down, he turned off the light and lay in the dark beside her.
He held her close and listened to her breathing slow.
He thought about a man with pale eyes and an ego that had just cracked open wide enough to make mistakes.
He'd made contact.
He'd named Haven specifically.
He'd killed twice to send messages.
Every one of those things was a deviation. Every deviation was a data point. Every data point was a step toward finding him.
Marcus stared at the ceiling in the dark.
He was going to find him.
That was not a professional assessment.
It was his solemn promise.
Haven was his. That bastard couldn’t have her.
He’d been making plans for the future with this woman.
He wanted her by his side. Or for that matter, he’d stay by her side.
It didn’t matter logistically where they were, just that they were together.
He’d make some calls, get the feel of what a future could look like, because not having her with him was not an option.