She nodded, walked to her front door, then stopped. “Fuck,” she muttered, then wrenched open the closet door. Sitting all alone were the small box and trifolded flag. Teeth clenched, she grabbed the box and shoved it in the bag as well. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Eighteen
Thursday, November 30, 10:40 P.M.
Olivia Sutherland?” Dana’s tone was thoughtful as it came across the phone line.
Mia sat at Lauren’s kitchen table. Reed’s sister had prepared the guest room with matching towels and perfumed soap. Mia had almost pushed the soap aside, but was glad she hadn’t. The scent was calming and, ridiculous as it sounded, feminine.
She’d thought of Reed as she’d used it, wondering if he’d like it, knowing he would. Knowing that was probably -Lauren’s intent all along. Sisters. Reed’s and now... mine.
“She wore a jacket just like mine, but somehow looked better in it.”
“You want Ethan to check her out?”
“That’s okay. She gave all her info when we took her statement. If she doesn’t check out, we’ll know soon enough. She hated me. Before anyway.”
“It had to be hard growing up without a dad, knowing he’d chosen someone else.”
“And I grew up wishing I could be someone else.”
“You’re not going to let this chance slip away, are you? Please tell me you won’t.”
“No, I won’t. I thought about what you said. About filet mignon and hamburger.”
“That was with respect to men,” Dana said dryly. “Not women and especially not women related to you. That’s just wrong, Mia.”
“Shut up. I meant, I thought about making do versus having it all. I’ve already missed too much by waiting for my life to settle, to be normal. Maybe Olivia and I can have a relationship, maybe not. She made the first step. I’ll make the next one. And if nothing else, at least I can cure her of her misinformed view of her father.”
Dana was silent, then asked, “How much will you tell her, Mia?”
“I don’t know. Not all, I guess. Too much information and all that.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Mia smiled. If nothing else, she had a good best friend. “I’ll think about it.”
“Did you think any more about what I said about hamburger with respect to men?”
Mia lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Yes.”
“And?”
She blew out a breath. “The man’s no hamburger, Dana.”
“Oh?” There was a cagey delight in Dana’s voice. “Tell me.”
“Prime rib.” She thought about the way he’d felt. The way he’d made her feel. “Way prime.” And as if she’d conjured him, there he was at the back door. “Oops. Gotta go.”
“Wait,” Dana protested. “You never told me where you were tonight.”
Reed was making faces outside the window. “I’m safe,” she said and leisurely came to her feet. “And I’m about to... consume sustenance.”
“Call me tomorrow and be prepared to be a little more forthcoming with the details.”
Mia hung up and let him in. He’d also showered and changed, dressed in a pair of worn jeans and an old jersey, his feet sockless in a pair of gleaming leather loafers. The man did love his shoes. He shivered. “I misplaced my key to this side.”
They stood, measuring each other in the quiet of his -sister’s kitchen. Then she tilted her head. “You lied. There’s no firepole and no trapeze.”
He didn’t smile. “But there is a trampoline out in the backyard.”
All of a sudden she didn’t feel like smiling either. “So spill it, Solliday.”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “We need to set some ground rules.”
Rules. She could deal with rules. She had a few of her own. “Okay.”
He frowned. Looked away for a minute, then back. “Why are you single?”
The question raised her hackles. “Hectic schedule,” she said sarcastically. “Never found time to pencil in the fitting for my wedding gown.”
He exhaled. “I’m serious.”
Trouble was, so was she. Still, she found another answer, equally true. “I’m a cop.”
“Lots of cops marry.”
“And lots get divorced. Look. I’m a good cop. Being married is difficult enough under ideal circumstances. I don’t think I could be good at both things at the same time.”
The answer seemed to relax him. “Have you been?”
“What, married? No.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “Engaged once, but no cigar.” She regarded him evenly. “Why have you never remarried?”
His eyes locked on hers, sober and intent. “Do you believe in soul mates?”
“No.” But her mind pricked. Dana and Ethan were. Abe and Kristen were. Bobby and Annabelle... were not. “For some people, maybe,” she amended.
“But not you?”
“No, not me. Why? Was Christine your soul mate?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
His conviction was unassailable. “And you only get one?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’ve never met anyone else like her and I’m not willing to settle for second best.”
She couldn’t stop the wince. “Well, that’s direct.”
“I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t want to misrepresent myself to you. I like you. Respect you.” He looked down at his shiny shoes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You just want to have sex with me.” It came out flatter than she’d intended.
He looked up, wary. “Basically. Yes.”
Irritation jabbed. “So why not pick up some woman in a bar?”
His dark eyes flashed. “I don’t want a one-night stand. Dammit. I don’t want to get married, but that doesn’t mean I’ll settle for... Never mind. I was wrong to start this.”
“Wait.”
He paused, hand clenched on the doorknob, and said nothing.
“Let me get this straight. You want sex with someone you respect, whose company you can enjoy on a limited -basis. You do not want marriage or any semblance of formal -commitment. I think the term for this is ‘no-strings affair.’ Is this correct?”
He drew a breath, exhaled on his answer. “Yes. And my daughter doesn’t find out.”
Mia found herself wincing again. “We certainly wouldn’t want to set a bad example.”
“She’s too young to understand. I don’t want her thinking that it’s okay to have indiscriminate sex. Because that’s not what this would be.”
Mia sat at the little table and raked her hand through her hair. “So this is a mutually beneficial, physical relationship with some pillow talk and no strings.”
He stood where he was. “If you’re willing.”
She lifted her chin. “And if I’m not?”
“I go home and sleep alone.” His eyes flickered. “I really don’t want to sleep alone.”
“Hmm. And you’ve had these ‘no-strings’ relationships before?”
“Not often,” he admitted.
His long abstinence now made sense. “Which is why it’d been six years.”
“Essentially. Did you want strings, Mia?”
There it was. The offer. It was filet mignon on a -hamburger bun. All the taste, without the fuss of silver and fine china and waiters to tip. Twenty-four hours ago, in Dana’s kitchen, it was what she’d insisted she’d wanted. Now, in Lauren’s kitchen, she recognized this was what she was destined to accept. There would be no hearts to break, no children to ruin. It would be for the best. “No. I don’t want strings, either.”
He was silent as he stared down at her. He didn’t believe her, she thought. She wasn’t sure she believed herself. Then he stretched out his hand. She put her hand in his and he pulled her from the chair. Slowly at first, he yanked her the rest of the way, banding his arms around her. Then he was kissing her, his mouth warm and hard and... necessary. The need unleashed within her was instantaneous, too -powerful to den
y.
She slid her arms around his neck, her fingers into his hair, and took what she needed. His hands cupped her butt, lifted her into him, rubbed her against the hard ridge in his worn jeans. He sent uncontrollable shivers through her body and she arched against him. More. Please. The words echoed in her mind, never passing her lips, but she told him what she wanted with her body. With the way she kissed him back.
He tore his mouth away, kissed down her neck, hungry. Ravenous. “I want you.” It was a growl, deep in his throat. “Let me have you.” His mouth closed over her breast, wringing a desperate cry from her lips. “Say yes. Now.”
She arched her back, abandoning herself to the feel of him. “Yes.”
He shuddered, hard, as if he hadn’t been sure of her answer. Then he carried her through the kitchen and up the stairs to where the big bed waited. “Now.”
Friday, December 1, 2:30 A.M.
The car at which he’d been scowling for the better part of two hours pulled away from the curb. Finally. He didn’t think those teenagers would ever stop making out in the back of that Chevy. And once they did, the boy walked the girl to the door at 995 Harmony Avenue, just one house away from the one he wanted, only to spend the next half hour with his tongue down her throat at the front door. But now the girl was inside and the boy gone.
He slipped around the back of 993 Harmony Avenue, the ski mask once again in place. The homeowner had added on a suite with its own kitchen and separate entrance. He didn’t know why Joe and Laura Dougherty were there. He didn’t care. He just wanted to kill them so he could get on with things. He jimmied the lock on the back door with ease and slipped inside.
And a patch of white caught his eye. It was the same cat he’d put outside the night he’d killed Caitlin Burnette. Quickly he scooped up the cat, gave it one stroke head to tail, then put him outside again. He turned to study the kitchen, frowning at the electric coils on the stove. No gas again. No explosion again. He huffed a frustrated breath.
It couldn’t matter anymore. He’d have to take comfort in making Laura Dougherty writhe in enough agony while she lived. Then he’d set her on fire, just like he’d done to the others. Quietly he crept to the bedroom. Good. Two people slept in the bed this time. He had them. They wouldn’t get away again.
He tapped his back, made sure the gun was secure there, which it was. He didn’t plan to use it, but he’d be prepared in case of the unexpected. He should have used it on the fire marshal tonight, he thought darkly. That he hadn’t was as much an embarrassment as almost getting caught to begin with.
Solliday had rattled him. He hadn’t expected so much speed from such a big guy. But for the minutes he’d run for his life, he hadn’t thought about his gun. He liked knives much better anyway.
He approached the bed. Joe Dougherty lay on his stomach and Laura lay curled on her side. Her hair was darker than it had been all those years ago.
It annoyed him when women tried to stay young when they weren’t. But he’d get to her later. First he had to deal with Joe. And he did, thrusting his knife into the man’s back with stealthy skill, in just the right place that he died instantly. Just a little gurgle of air escaped his lungs. Old lady -Dougherty was probably too deaf by now to hear it.
But she stirred. “Joe?” she murmured. He was on her before she could roll over, pushing her face into the pillow, pushing his knee into her kidneys. She thrashed with surprising strength. He pulled the rag from his pocket and shoved it in her mouth, grabbed her hands and secured them behind her back with thin twine.
Then he flipped her over and sliced the flannel nightgown from her body before lifting his eyes to her face. His heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t her.
Goddammit to hell, this wasn’t her. Teeth clenched he put the tip of the knife to her throat. “If you scream, I’ll butcher you like a pig. Got it?” Eyes wide with terror, her head moved in a little nod so he pulled the rag from her mouth. “Who are you?”
“Donna Dougherty.”
He was breathing hard. Control. “Donna Dougherty. Where is Laura?”
Her eyes widened farther. “Dead,” she croaked. “Dead.”
He grabbed her hair and yanked. “Don’t lie to me, woman.”
“I’m not,” she sobbed. “I’m not. She’s dead. I swear it.”
He felt an animal roar fight to escape his chest. “When?”
“Two years ago. H-heart attack.”
The rage nearly overwhelmed him. He turned over the man lying next to her. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and Donna moaned.
“Joe. Oh no.”
“Fuck.” The man was too young. This had to be Joe’s son. Joe Junior. The woman had to go. She’d seen him. Viciously angry he’d been cheated yet again, he flipped her over to her stomach and holding her by her hair, slit her throat in one hard slice.
He laid the egg on their bed, his hands shaking. He should have taken the hint the first time they weren’t home. Should have accepted this as fate. She wasn’t as important as the others, but she’d been a missing piece in a finished puzzle, bothering him as long as she was alive. But Laura was dead. Long dead. And out of his grasp.
He lit the fuse, this time not to punish or to celebrate, but to hide.
Friday, December 1, 3:15 a.m
Reed knew the moment she woke up. Spooned against him, her tight body stretched and arched back into him. “Hey,” she mumbled.
His face was buried in the graceful curve of her shoulder, his hand busy in the warm, moist heat between her legs. “Did I wake you?” he asked.
She sucked in a breath when his thumb found her most vulnerable spot. “I wondered how you’d manage this,” she said. “I mean, given the whole...” She jerked back against him with a hard shudder. “Dexterity thing. Damn.”
“I manage just fine,” he said, stroking her, enjoying the way her body felt as she undulated. “I woke up wanting you again.” He’d woken reaching for her, his heart easing when his hands grasped her flesh instead of empty air.
She tried to roll over, but he held her firmly in place.
“No.” He pulled her leg back over his hip. “Let me. Let me.” She yielded completely, moaning when he pushed into her. “Let me, Mia.”
She grabbed him around his neck as she worked her hips like pistons. “I am.”
She was. She’d let him do everything, responding with an intensity that made him feel like he’d conquered a continent. This time was no different and she came hard around him, pulling him into his own climax with enough force that it was a wonder his heart didn’t stop. They lay panting and her laugh filled the room. “You woke me up.”
He pressed a lazy kiss to the side of her neck. “Should I apologize?”
“Would you mean it?”
“No.”
She laughed again, softer this time. “Then don’t.” He held her to him, stroking the length of her thigh when he noticed the bruise on her arm in the dim glow from the streetlamp outside. Appalled, he switched on the light. “Did I do that?”
“What? Oh, that. No. I bumped into something on my way out of the office tonight.”
“Good. I didn’t mean to be rough with you.”
“You weren’t. It was just right.” She sighed, content. “I think we’ve both got a lot of need stored up. It hasn’t been six years, but it’s been a while for me, too.”
She’d been engaged. Suddenly he needed to know why she hadn’t gone through with it. “Mia, why didn’t you get married?”
She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. He was kicking himself for asking when she sighed, this time pensive. “You want to know about my ex.”
“What I really want to know is why you said you didn’t want to want this.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, made his tone light. “You’re so good at it, after all.”
But his teasing tone did nothing to lighten hers. “Sex has never been my problem, Reed. Guy never complained about that.”
His name was Guy then. A Frenc
h name. He couldn’t see Mia with a French guy named Guy. She wasn’t the roses and romance type. Still, jealousy speared at him and Reed pushed it away. Guy was gone after all. “What did he complain about, then?”
“My job. The hours.” She paused. “His mother complained, too. She didn’t think I was good enough for her baby.”
“Mothers often don’t.”
“Did your mother think Christine was good enough for you?”
He remembered their relationship fondly. “Yes. Yes, she did. Christine and Mom were friends. They went shopping and did lunch and all those things.”
“Bernadette and I never had that kind of relationship.” She sighed. “I met Guy at a party. He was fascinated with my job. The whole CSI thing. And I was interested in his.”
“What did he do?”
She flipped to her back and looked up at him. “He was Guy LeCroix.”
Reed had to admit he was impressed. “The hockey player?” LeCroix had retired the season before, but he’d been magic on the ice. “Wow.”
Her lips curved. “Yeah. Wow. I got great seats, right behind the penalty box.” The smile faded. “He liked introducing me as his girlfriend, the homicide cop.”
“So why did you get engaged to him?”
“I truly liked him. Guy’s a nice guy and while he was playing, things were good. He wasn’t home enough to make demands. Then he retired and things changed. He wanted to get married and I got sucked into the flow. Then Bernadette got involved. She had very specific ideas about how weddings, and wives, should be.”
“I take it you didn’t fit her requirements.”
“No,” she said wryly. “Anyway, I’d canceled one too many fittings for my dress and Bernadette threw a fit. I found out about it the next night when Guy took me to this fancy place downtown with linen and crystal and waiters who hovered.” She grimaced.
She’d hate a place like that. He stroked her chin with his thumb. “And?”
“And Guy informed me that I’d canceled seventy-three percent of the appointments his mother had set for the wedding and then he got stern and added that I’d broken sixty-seven percent of our dates. That our dates came second was telling. Anyway, he insisted I ‘improve my performance.’ Yeah, I think that’s how he phrased it.”