Hold Your Breath (Search and Rescue) (28 page)

By the end of his hospital stay, he probably regretted making her promise not to leave. She stuck to him like Velcro, only prying herself from his side when a staff member kicked her out of the room. As he improved, his mood took a drastic dive, and Lou was pretty sure everyone at the hospital gave a deep sigh of relief when Callum was finally discharged two days later.

While she was driving them back to Simpson, they passed through one of the few sections with cell reception, and her phone rang. Callum plucked it out of the cup holder and glanced at the screen.

“Rob,” he said.

“Would you?”

He accepted the call and put it on speaker. “Hello.”

There was a short pause. “Callum?”

“Yes, but Lou’s here, too. You’re on speaker.”

“Good. I just wanted to update you on those emails we found on your mother’s computer.”

Lou winced, thinking of the seventeen calls from her mom’s phone she’d ignored when the search warrant was executed. “What’d you find?” she asked, dreading the answer. Callum took her hand in his, and she shot him a smile.

“He’d created quite a fantasy world for himself. He wrote about conversations the two of you had, going on dates with you, even how you were discussing living together when you returned to Connecticut.”

When she realized her mouth had fallen open, she closed it with a snap. “The fantasy me is kind of a fast mover.”

“He also mentioned another guy, who I’m assuming is you, Callum, but Lloyd didn’t see him as a lasting threat to your ‘relationship.’”

“Relationship?” She choked on the word.

“In his final email, he makes a reference to needing to ‘deal with an impediment to Louise’s happiness.’” Rob sounded as if he were reading directly from the email. “Your stepfather identified the voice of the caller who made the 9-1-1 call that night as Lloyd’s. Between that, these emails, your and Callum’s testimony, and his dive gear, this is a pretty clear ambush. There will be a hearing where you will both need to testify, but I can’t imagine anyone seeing this as anything but a solid case of self-defense.”

Because she’d been so focused on Callum’s recovery—as well as avoiding thinking about her mother’s betrayal and the way the life faded from Brent’s eyes—it hadn’t even occurred to Lou that she might be accused of murder. The idea slammed into her chest, and she couldn’t talk for several long moments. She tried to concentrate on just breathing.

Shooting her a concerned glance, Callum broke the silence. “Thanks, Rob.”

“Not a problem. I’ll keep you both informed about the details on the upcoming hearing. Oh, and Lou?”

Still rattled by the image of Brent’s face as he died—as she killed him—she only managed a grunt in reply.

“I hate to give you more bad news,” he started, making her cringe, “but I figured you’d want a heads-up. During the investigation into Lloyd, the Connecticut investigators found some suggestion of illegal activity involving your father’s business.”

“Stepfather,” she corrected automatically, still sounding as if she’d been punched in the belly. “What kind of illegal activity?”

“Misuse of funds and possible money laundering,” Rob answered, sounding tired. “It’s been turned over to the FBI.”

She couldn’t answer, couldn’t manage to speak, so she was relieved when Callum thanked Rob again.

By that time, Lou was able to wheeze out a good-bye that was semicoherent before Callum disconnected the call.

“You okay?” he asked mildly, tucking her phone back into the cup holder. His other hand slipped from hers so he could gently massage the back of her neck.

“Yeah. It just feels like everything is crashing down on me. I can’t believe that Richard…” Even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true. Although he’d married her mother when Lou was twelve, she didn’t feel like she really knew him. He’d always been a remote figure, a workaholic.

“It’s been a hard month for you.” He was quiet while his hand worked the muscles connecting her shoulders to her neck. “You’ll need to talk to someone.”

As blissed-out by his mini-massage as she was, it took a moment for his meaning to register. “Talk to someone—like a professional someone?” She snorted. “I don’t think so.”

“Not optional.”

“Yes. As the one whose brain is supposed to get shrunk, I definitely get a say in this.”

“I’m not telling you as your boyfriend. I’m telling you as your team leader what the official policy is. Technically, you should have had to go after you discovered HDG.”

Although she grumbled under her breath, she didn’t push the argument further. It was a lot harder to debate official policy with her team leader than it was to blow off a well-meant suggestion from her boyfriend. Besides, she couldn’t keep shoving any thoughts of that night in the reservoir into a dark corner of her brain forever. Eventually, as terrifying as the thought was, she’d have to deal with it.

Since she’d conceded the point, he tipped his head back against the seat. In short order, he began to snore quietly. Even though she knew it was probably a short-term symptom of her current ecstatic condition that he was alive, she reveled in the sound. It was a clear sign that he was breathing. If he’d dozed quietly, she probably would’ve had to poke him every so often so he’d swear at her, proving his non-deadness.

Grinning, she pointed the truck up the north side of Lever Pass. Callum was alive, and they were going home. Rule Number One…accomplished.

* * *

Once they arrived at Callum’s house, he blearily stumbled to the loft. Shortly after he collapsed on the bed, the rhythmic snoring began again. Left to her own devices for the afternoon, Lou decided to spend some quality time with the whiteboard. It had been neglected since the incident under the ice. It also took her mind off memories of that night, and the question that kept repeating in her mind—why? Why had Brent tried to kill her? What had pushed him from being a slightly unstable ex-boyfriend to a completely off-the-rails stalker and murderer? The questions looped through her brain, making her nervous and potentially weepy, so she seized on the distraction of their murder board.

She couldn’t stop staring at HDG’s name. Willard Alan Gray. It still seemed foreign to her, as if her brain couldn’t wrap around the idea that the bloated, headless corpse had been a person, someone’s son and friend. Giving her head a shake to force herself to focus, she picked up an orange marker and found an empty space on the board.

After writing his name again, she listed everything she could remember Chris telling them about Willard. She jotted down
lived alone
and
how long?
to remind herself to ask Callum once he woke. Although he never gossiped, Cal seemed to know everything about everyone in Simpson.

Baxter Price, Army buddy
was the next item she listed. Under that, she added
emailed/called
. It could be important that Willard had communicated with the outside world, even if it was through the Internet and phone. She was having a hard time imagining how a hermit could enrage someone badly enough to lose his life and his head over it.

“Willy,” she muttered, tapping the cap of the marker against her bottom lip. “Who’d you piss off?”

She wrote
protested nearby home development
and then took a step back to eye the words. Leaning back toward the board, she added
unsuccessfully
to the front of the phrase. His protests could’ve been annoying to someone or some company, but the development was built. His city planning complaints had been brushed off like a pesky but ineffectual fly.

Glancing at the area of the whiteboard dedicated to the motorcycle club, she frowned. As tenuous as the connection between Willard’s protests of the new development and his murder seemed, there didn’t appear to be
any
link between the reclusive loner and the MC.

She tapped her marker tip next to Baxter’s name, leaving several orange dots. Talking to Willard’s friend was next on the agenda. First though, she thought, capping her marker and tucking it away with the rest, was making dinner. And then maybe a nap with the not-dead guy sawing logs upstairs. The last thought made her smile. Since Lou wasn’t sure how long Callum was going to sleep, she decided to take a modified page out of his book and fire up the Crock-Pot. Finding ground beef in his freezer was easy, not only because it was so extremely neat, but also because each section of shelving was labeled with the food item it contained.

“That’s just not normal,” she muttered, resisting the urge to switch the bag of frozen broccoli with a package of chicken breasts, just to see what would happen. Due to Callum’s very recent hospital stay, she restrained herself.

Opening his fridge, she was surprised everything still looked fresh. She had to remind herself that, even though it felt like they’d been gone for weeks, it had only been a few days since that horrible night. The image of Brent’s wide-eyed look of disbelief as she’d killed him flashed through her mind, and she squeezed her eyes closed until the mental picture faded. Her eyes eased open again, and she blindly stared at the inside of his fridge. His extreme organization wasn’t enough to make her smile this time as she grabbed a green pepper and an onion from the vegetable drawer.

By the time she’d browned the meat and chopped veggies, she’d managed to shove the mental movies of that night back into that dark closet in her brain, slam the door, and lock it. Although she figured it probably wasn’t the most mentally healthy way to handle it, she was able to add the rest of the chili ingredients to the Crock-Pot with a modicum of calm.

Once she’d cleaned up the kitchen and left the chili to simmer, she climbed the stairs to the loft. When she saw Callum, fully dressed and sprawled on his belly crossways across the bed, she smiled, her heart giving a little lurch. Grabbing a fleece blanket that had been folded over the footboard, she shook it out and spread it over his snoring form. After shedding her jeans and hoodie, leaving her in a long-sleeved thermal shirt and underwear, she crawled beneath the blanket and pressed against him.

With a grunt, he turned onto his side and gathered her close. “Sparks,” he grumbled, still sounding more than half-asleep. “Where’ve you been?”

“Cooking.” Shifting her head so one of his shirt buttons wasn’t indenting itself onto her cheekbone, she snuggled closer.

“D’you clean the kitchen?”

Lou laughed softly. “Of course. It is spotless perfection. You’ll ask me for cleaning lessons once you see it.”

His grunt, even as sleepy as it was, sounded skeptical. She just laughed again and closed her eyes.

“Love you, Sparks,” he mumbled.

Her fingers clenched around handfuls of his shirt. “Love you, too.”

His only answer was a snore.

After tipping her head so she could kiss the top of his sternum, she turned her cheek to its original position on his chest. “Glad you’re alive, Cal.”

Her eyes started to slide closed when a knock from downstairs popped them open again. Mentally swearing, she checked to make sure the sound hadn’t disturbed Callum. Since he was still happily snoring, she slid out of bed, pulled on her jeans, and hurried down the stairs, hoping to get to the door before the person knocked again.

Heavy knuckles pounded just as she was reaching for the doorknob, and she quickly jerked open the door.

“Richard?” She gaped at the sight of her stepfather standing in the doorway. Her cell phone rang in the kitchen, but she ignored the sound, too startled by the unexpected visitor. He was the last—well, second to last—person she’d thought would ever be visiting Simpson.

“Louise.” When he moved forward, she automatically retreated, allowing him to step inside. As she studied him, he raked the interior of the cabin with his gaze. At his disdainful expression, Lou felt a flare of defensiveness for her cozy, tidy new home. Although he was wearing his usual suit, which made him seem even more out of place in the land of flannel and log cabins, he looked mussed and pale.

“What are you doing here?” she asked warily. The news Rob had shared about her stepfather’s legal troubles ran through her mind, making her wonder crazy things.
What if he wants me to hide him here?
Mentally, she started thinking of a firm yet gentle way of turning him down. Her unfortunate history showed she wasn’t very good at going against Richard’s wishes. She was stronger now, though. She’d faced down a killer. Telling her stepfather “no” would be a piece of cake. Despite her stiffened spine, though, her stomach churned with nerves.

“Do you have a will?” he asked abruptly.

She blinked at him and swallowed the
sorry, but I won’t hide you from the FBI
hovering on her lips. “Uh…that’s a bizarre question.”

Stepping forward, he loomed over her. “Answer me. Do. You. Have. A. Will.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing emerged. All she could do was stare at the stranger wearing her stepfather’s face. His hair was rumpled, his comb-over flopping to the wrong side. There was a few days of patchy scruff on his cheeks and jaw. The most alien part of the man in front of her, however, was his intense, furious expression. The Richard she knew was remote and emotionless, not this rage-filled person standing in front of her.

His hands landed on her shoulders, squeezing hard enough to make her yelp. “Tell me!”

“No!” She yanked out of his hold and retreated until she collided with the back of the whiteboard. “Why would I have a will? The little I owned was burned by your psycho protégé.”

That seemed to calm him a little, although his eyes still looked wild. “Good. Okay, good. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Was everyone in her life losing their minds? “I’m not going anywhere. It’s been…uh, great seeing you, but you need to go now. Without me. Because I’m staying here.”

His hand slid into his coat pocket, and he pulled out a black handgun. She stared at it blankly for a long second, her brain refusing to make sense of her boring stepfather holding a deadly weapon. Her vision narrowed on the gun until it was all she could see. Her breaths were coming in rapid puffs, but she couldn’t get enough oxygen.