Noah locked his front door, worn. He and Jack had spent an hour going over the missed homicide, trying to glean any detail that would connect her to Martha Brisbane but so far, nothing. The two were connected in the most obvious way, of course. They’d been killed in the same exact way. But why? And who? And why those two women?
Then he and Jack read months of suicide reports, praying there would be no similar scenes. They’d found none, but after reading all of those accounts of suicide, Noah’s relief was mixed with sadness and a feeling of hopelessness he was finding difficult to shake. There but for the grace of God, he’d thought more than once.
He sat wearily on his bed. Jack had no understanding, no compassion for those who’d taken their own lives. But I do. I understand all too well.
One night, ten years ago, he’d been so close… He’d been sitting right here on the edge of his bed, his revolver in one hand, their picture in the other.
His eyes strayed to their picture on his nightstand, the frame worn smooth by years of rubbing. The boy was only two and looked just like the woman who held him. A woman who, twelve long years later, could still make him wish for just one more day. If only.
It hadn’t been twelve years the night he’d decided to end it. It had only been two years since the night his car spun out of control, taking his world with it. Two years that he’d sunk deep into the darkness and crawled deeper into a bottle.
He’d been drunk that night he’d held his gun in his hand. Almost drunk enough to pull the trigger and end the pain that never seemed to fade. But he hadn’t been quite drunk enough. It had been Brock that he’d called, Brock who’d come, Brock who’d dragged his ass to AA. Brock who’d saved his godforsaken life.
Ten years, Noah thought. Sober for ten years. But there were times, unguarded moments when the pain still speared deep. Tonight was one of those times.
It was no longer grief as much as loneliness. The house was so quiet. Too quiet. Brock had Trina and the kids. What do I have? Or who?
He picked up the novel he kept next to his bed for nights he couldn’t sleep, pulled out the glossy postcard he’d shoved between the pages. It was Sal’s holiday card. Sal and Josie stood in the middle, surrounded by all their employees. Sal’s arm was solidly around Eve’s shoulders, as if holding her in place for the picture. Her lips curved in her little sideways smile, but her dark eyes were serious. Too serious.
Eve had drawn him the moment he’d laid eyes on her, and he’d convinced himself to approach her a million times. But in the end it was his own voice he heard. Hi, I’m Noah, and I’m an alcoholic. It was a hell of a burden to ask any woman to share.
Anyone with eyes could see that Eve bore her own burdens. There was no way he’d add his to her shoulders. His heart heavy, he put Sal’s holiday card in his drawer.
Tonight, after reading all those suicide accounts, he’d wanted a drink so goddamn bad… If he’d had any booze in the house, he’d be halfway to drunk this very moment. If the craving got any worse, he’d be calling Brock for a midnight workout. A few rounds in the boxing ring usually got him through the worst of it.
Somehow Eve didn’t strike him as much of a boxer. He thought of her slender hands and the pain in her eyes every time she lifted a heavy pitcher to the bar. A million times he’d nearly jumped out of his chair at Sal’s and done the lifting for her, but he hadn’t. Because along with her pain was a determination, and then satisfaction that she’d done it. Determination and satisfaction, he understood.
Brock had told him that when Sal first hired her, one of her hands had been useless, but that she’d just worked faster with the good hand, somehow managing to keep up. She was a woman who’d been through a hell of her own. And persevered.
She deserved a hell of a lot more than… me. Brock was right. He played with fire every time he walked into that bar. He couldn’t go back to Sal’s. Not ever again. Which meant he wouldn’t see Eve, ever again. Which in the end, was for the best.
He would do his job. Two women, murdered. He would find out by whom, and why.
And then? And then he’d take one day at time, as he’d been doing for ten years.
Monday, February 22, 2:20 a.m.
Christy Lewis puckered her lips in a kiss, checking her lipstick and the rest of her reflection. The lipstick was new, just like the outfit she’d been saving for a night like this.
Her eyes were bright with anticipation. She’d never done anything like this before. Anything so naughtily tawdry. She’d met him in Shadowland, mingling in Ninth Circle. He’d said his name was John. She was pretty sure it wasn’t, just as she was pretty sure he wasn’t divorced. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was married with two point five kids and a dog. But she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.
He was in sales and traveled. She’d left the open invitation that if he was ever in the Twin Cities… Tonight he was. For just one night. The words “one-night stand” tickled her imagination. She’d never done one, not even in college when all of her friends did. She might not even do one tonight. It would depend on him, how he looked.
She didn’t expect him to look like his avatar. Who does? If we looked like our avatars, we’d have real lives.
But, if he was cute and clean, then why not? It had been a while since she’d had her watch wound. And men did it all the time. Her miserable ex-husband had. All the time.
So now it’s my turn.
And if “John” had a wife, two point five kids, and a dog? Christy’s shoulders sagged. She knew if he did, she couldn’t go through with it. She’d been the “injured party.”
But just maybe, he didn’t. She dropped her lipstick in her purse. Maybe he was telling the truth. And if not? She’d get out, drink a cup of coffee with someone who was flesh and bone. And then she’d come home alone, like she always did.
Finally. He’d thought she’d never leave. He watched Christy Lewis drive away, then pulled into her driveway. She lived out in the country, her nearest neighbor a quarter mile away. The location was logistically inconvenient to get to, but once they returned together later, there would be no need to tape her mouth closed as he’d done to the others. She could scream as long and loud as she wanted and no one would hear her.
And she would scream. Or maybe she’d be so terrified she’d go completely silent. One never knew how people would react when confronted with their worst fear. Either way, he had very high hopes for an intense experience.
He looked into his backseat with a smile. Christy Lewis’s worst fear was safely contained in a metal box with holes poked in the top. One couldn’t be too careful. He himself wasn’t terrified, but he wasn’t foolish either. He’d put the box in the house where it and its occupant could grow warm. The occupant of the box didn’t like the cold, hibernating this time of year. By the time he returned with Christy, the occupant of the box should be quite warm and quite… mobile.
He grabbed the box by its handle, gratified at the soft stirring that came from within. Excellent. Christy’s worst fear was waking. It would be hungry. Of course he’d planned for that. He grabbed a small cage from the floor, ignoring the high-pitched chatter.
He shivered deliciously, anticipating. This would be one to remember for a long time.
Monday, February 22, 2:40 a.m.
Brock dragged his forearm across his brow, clumsily wiping the sweat. “You good?”
Noah leaned against the ropes, panting. He was very nearly hollowed out. They’d set up the boxing ring in Brock’s basement years ago, along with free weights, punching bags, everything they needed for their own gym. Everything Noah needed to battle his way out of the bottle, away from the prying eyes of other cops at the department gym.
Noah had thrown more punches here than he wanted to count. It was a way to get through the gnawing need for a drink before it became a craving. Sometimes he used a punching bag, but when it got really bad, he needed something that punched back.
Brock had absorbed more of Noah’s punches tha
n either of them wanted to count.
Noah exhaled slowly, considering. The gnawing need was still there. It was always there. But the worst of the craving had passed. “I think so.”
“Thank God,” Brock muttered. Spitting out his mouth guard, he straightened his back with a quiet groan and waggled his jaw. “You got me with that last one.”
Normally he and Brock were evenly matched, but tonight the craving had been especially vicious, its claws razor sharp. The dream woke him, left him shuddering in his bed like a frightened child. Then the craving had barreled out of the darkness like a freight train. It had been a long time since he’d come so close to giving in.
“I’m sorry.” Noah pulled at his gloves with his teeth, wincing when he got a good look at his cousin’s face. “I got your eye, too. God, Brock, I’m sorry. Dammit.”
“S’okay.” Brock tried to rip at his own gloves with his teeth, but stopped, grimacing from the pain in his jaw. “I’ve had worse. Not in a while, but I have had worse.”
“Shoulda’ kept your hands up.” Brock’s wife, Trina, rose from the basement stairs where she’d been sitting, hidden from their view. She reached over the ropes to pull off her husband’s gloves. “One of these days, you’re gonna really get creamed.”
Brock frowned down at her. “Don’t I get any sympathy?” he grumbled.
She lifted her chin to meet his eyes, unmoved. “I made you an ice pack.”
Noah almost smiled. Trina was one of his all-time favorite people. They’d gone through the academy together and he’d introduced her to Brock, toasted them at their wedding. He was godfather to two of their sons. A decorated cop, Trina was as close as any sister could ever have been. She knew all his faults and loved him anyway.
Trina turned, assessing Noah with eyes that missed very little. “Not that I mind watching two ripped guys without shirts duking it out in my basement, but what gives?”
Noah rubbed a towel over his face. “Bad dream,” he said shortly.
“Hm,” she said. She pulled a cold bottle of water from each of the deep pockets of her robe, tossing one to Noah. The other she pressed to Brock’s eye, which was already turning purple. “Ice pack for your jaw is upstairs. I put on a pot of coffee. Come.”
They followed her up to the kitchen table where Trina filled their cups and pressed an ice pack to Brock’s jaw. “Must have been one hell of a bad dream,” she said quietly.
“Yeah.” Noah dragged his palms down his face. “I caught a hanger tonight, but it was staged.” He knew he could tell these two anything and it would never leave the room. They were more than family, they were cops. “And it was the second one.”
“Not good,” Trina murmured. “You’re thinking serial?”
“Maybe. Jack and I went back to the station, combing the suicide reports to see if there were any more. Luckily there weren’t.”
Trina sipped at her coffee. “So what did you dream?”
Noah drew a breath. It was still so real. So disturbing. “That I was the hanger.”
“Upsetting,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you’ve had suicide dreams before and you’ve never messed up Brock’s face this bad.”
“It’s not that bad,” Brock mumbled and she patted his hand.
“Not from where I’m sitting, baby,” she said. She turned back to Noah. “So?”
“The victims had their eyes glued open. Grisly.” He shrugged. “In the dream I saw these dark eyes staring up at me.” Dark brown doe eyes, filled with pain.
“The victim’s?” she asked.
Noah shook his head, not wanting to say. “No. Just somebody I know.”
Brock’s eyes grew sharp. “Eve, then.”
Noah looked down at the cup in his hands. “Yeah.”
Trina sighed heavily. “So you did go to Sal’s tonight. You had me confused there for a minute. You normally only come over to punch on Brock on Monday nights.”
Noah barely fought the urge to fidget in his seat. “Well, I won’t be going back.”
“Glad to hear it,” Trina said cautiously. “What about Eve?”
“Not meant to be,” Noah said, ignoring the disappointment. “I’m moving on.”
“Really, now?” she asked, her tone deceptively mild. “Then I have a friend you’d like. She’s Joey’s kindergarten teacher. Really pretty and she likes those dark philosophers you like to read. Y’know, the ones that make you want to drown your head in a bucket.”
Brock looked away, but failed to hide his smirk.
Trina leaned forward, all charm and smiles. “I think I’ll invite her to dinner for you. You can bring a pie or something. How does tomorrow night look?”
Noah hated when Trina read him like a book. “Busy.”
“Tuesday? Wednesday? Busy?” She made a scoffing noise. “You’re a lousy liar.”
He frowned darkly. “I won’t go back to Sal’s. You have my word.”
“Good. But don’t lie to me about Eve. You don’t move on. You linger and wallow.”
“I do not,” he said, offended. “Brock?”
Brock shook his head. “I already got beat up once tonight.”
Trina threw a sympathetic glance at Brock before turning serious eyes on Noah. “You don’t have to go to a bar to see a bartender. She has a life outside of Sal’s.” She brightened, wryly. “I bet she even eats. I know. Why not invite Eve to dinner, instead?”
Noah clenched his teeth. “It isn’t meant to be, Tree. Just leave it. Promise me.”
Trina pushed away from the table, annoyed. “Fine. I promise. Satisfied?”
Not really. Part of him hadn’t wanted her to give up so easily. But Noah stood, kissed her cheek, and said what he needed to. “Yes. Go back to bed. I’m going home.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” she said and Noah swallowed his sigh. This meant she had more to say. Dutifully Noah followed her to the door where she buttoned his coat as if he was one of her sons. She looked up, troubled. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation, and she smiled, but sadly.
“Tonight… you scared me, Noah. If you two hadn’t stopped when you did, I would have stopped you. You were so angry.”
He closed his eyes, shame washing through him. “I know.”
“You will always be welcome here, no matter what time of the day or night. But you can’t go after Brock like that again. He won’t say so because he’s too proud, but you could seriously hurt him. You were rocked tonight by that dream. But there was more to it than that.” She tugged on his coat. “Dammit, you look at me.”
He opened his eyes and swallowed hard. There was no accusation in her eyes, just love, fierce and sharp. “You’re not ready to move on, Noah. Eve’s touched something in you that you don’t want to walk away from, whether you want to admit it or not. And I think that’s what was pushing you tonight, not a dream and not this case.”
“I know,” he murmured, miserably. “But I don’t know what to do about it.”
Trina hugged him hard. “Trust yourself. You’re a good man, Noah Webster. You don’t deserve to be alone forever.” She gave him a shrewd look. “You’re not the only one with bad dreams. Brock and I see bad shit every day, just like you do.”
“So what do you do when you have dreams, Tree?”
“Sometimes I raid the fridge for anything chocolate. Sometimes I work out. And sometimes I just fuck Brock’s brains out.” He snorted a surprised laugh and she lifted a brow. “There’s something to be said for therapeutic sex. Maybe you should get some.”
Her words sent instant images of Eve, long and lithe, sliding her body down his. He thought of the yearning he’d seen in her eyes tonight, the need she’d tried so hard to hide. He shuddered, clenching his fists in his pockets. “I won’t drag her down with me.”
“Sometimes, Noah, it’s just out of your hands.”
“You promised,” he warned, but wearily and without bite.
“Yeah, I did. But sometimes fate steps
in and kicks your ass. You think you know what she needs. Hell,” she scoffed, “you don’t even know what you need.”
“What I need is sleep.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Go, before you get sick.”
Monday, February 22, 4:00 a.m.
Christy had been sitting in the booth by the window for over an hour. She’d had five cups of coffee, having finished the waffles she’d ordered when the waitress got testy.
He didn’t dare go inside. Unlike the coffee shop where he’d watched Martha, in this diner he’d stick out like a sore thumb. The diner served all night, but most of their clients were truckers and the occasional hungry traveler. And Christy Lewis.
“Who is finally tired of waiting for John,” he murmured as she dug into her purse. She paid her bill before disappearing for several minutes, which he assumed was a trip to the ladies’ room. Reappearing with her face blotchy, which he assumed meant she’d indulged in a fit of tears, she walked to her car, her head down against the wind.
One hour, twenty minutes, and fifty-five seconds. So far Christy Lewis had waited longer than any of them. He might have enjoyed that fact, except that the car he was driving was too small, even for him. But the little car was part of the plan, just like the choice of this particular diner. More “clues” for the Hat Squad. It was going to drive them crazy. That Christy had consumed food while she’d waited seemed an unfair autopsy freebie, but he couldn’t change that now.
With a defiant tilt of her chin, she pulled down her visor mirror and slashed on fresh lipstick before capping the tube and throwing it hard at her windshield. He hoped her anger would carry her home faster. He got a shiver of anticipation, just thinking about what lay ahead, and pulled out of the diner’s parking lot behind her.
Monday, February 22, 4:35 a.m.
Christy slammed her car door, the noise echoing in the night. I am so stupid. How many times had she heard about lies online? You should know. You tell them yourself. That was different. That was Shadow-land. This was real life and he’d lied.