Killing Me Softly (13 page)

She opened the passenger door and got in, then waited.

Five minutes later, Bryan slid behind the wheel and started the engine. He glanced at her, his gaze curious. “Well? What did she want?”

Dawn mulled the question for a moment. “I think she wanted to know if I'd talked to her dead roommate. I think she wanted to find out what I knew about Sara Quinlan.”

He lifted his brows. “Really?”

“Yeah, and when I told her I hadn't, and that I didn't know anything, then asked her for information about Sara, she got all defensive, refused to give me anything and abruptly ended the conversation.”

Bryan blinked as he processed that. “That's odd.”

“She was hiding something, Bryan. Something to do with Sara Quinlan. I know it. I think that's where we have to focus our digging. On the first victim, on Sara.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

She sighed. “She did say one useful thing, though. And then tried to take it back, so I think it slipped out unintended.”

“Yeah? What was that?”

“She said that my gift is like a muscle. That when you don't use it, it gets weak. But if you just start flexing it again, it'll regrow, get strong and be as good as ever.”

He stared at her for a long moment then finally spoke. “You're going to keep trying, then? To get the ghosts to come back to you?”

“I don't think I have a choice, Bry.”

“Yeah, you do.”

She sucked in a breath, then blew it out again and changed the subject.

“Let's get back to the room, really dig into the Sara Quinlan info in the files. I think her autopsy report was in there, wasn't it?”

“All of them were,” he said. “But I don't know what that'll tell us. They all died the same way, strangulation and a lungful of Glasgow Gold.”

“Still, we need to go over hers with a fine-tooth comb. Everything in her file. She was the first. She's our Ground Zero.”

Sighing, he nodded. “Okay.”

“So is it a plan, then?” she asked. “We research the hell out of victim number one tonight, and anything we can get on Olivia, as well? And we do it over something to eat?”

“All right, it's a plan,” Bryan agreed. “But I don't want pizza or fast food for dinner again. My belly's asking for something legitimate for a change.”

She looked at him. “You know, that sounds damn good to me.”

“Does it?”

“Shit, yeah. Two stops and we've got it made. That drugstore we hit earlier—it had an electric two-burner cooking thingie.”

“Yes, it did. What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking with that, the motel room's microwave, a frying pan and ten minutes at a grocery store, we could have steaks and baked potatoes with sour cream for dinner.”

“Are you trying to seduce me?” he asked with a broad grin.

She met his eyes and fell silent. Part of her wanted to look away, but some devil inside made her hold his gaze captive and say, “What if I was?”

Bryan's smile faded to black. He averted his eyes. “I, um, I don't think that would be…the best idea, Dawn.”

“Oh.” The hurt came through in that single syllable, she knew it did, but she couldn't help it. It was painful to think he didn't want her anymore.

“It's not what you think,” he told her.

“It's okay. It doesn't matter.”

“Dawn, I—”

“Don't.” She held up a hand. “Just…don't. Look, there's a grocery store up ahead. Let's stop, okay?”

 

Bryan filled the cart. He picked out two giant-size Idaho russets, the two biggest T-bones in the case and a pint of sour cream. Then he added some extras. A pair of ready-made chef's salads from the deli, a box of Freihofer's chocolate-chip cookies, which he claimed were the best prebaked cookies on the planet, and a twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee.

Dawn was tossing stuff into the cart, too, but he paid very little attention to what. He was trying to pay very little attention to her altogether, but it was just about impossible. He knew he had hurt her by rejecting what had amounted to an offer of sex. But dammit, he had no choice. She'd stopped him from explaining that it wasn't that he didn't want her—because he did—but that it was a matter of self-preservation. And now that some time had passed, he thought that might be a good thing. Because if she knew how very much he'd wanted to say yes and to hell with the consequences, she wouldn't let up on him until he did just that.

And he couldn't.

He still felt too much for her. Way too much. More than before, even. Yeah, they'd been nuts about each other when they'd been teenagers. Thought they were in love, of course. But this…this was different. This was bigger and deeper and just…more. It was as if that old
feeling had been Mossburg Creek, the tiny writhing strand that wound through Blackberry. And this new one was the Colorado River.

Or maybe the difference was just time. And how water cuts more deeply over the course of a few centuries.

All he knew was that no matter what she said, Dawn was going to bolt straight back to the West Coast if she saw another ghost. And he couldn't be sure that wouldn't happen. In fact, he was fairly certain it
would
happen. There was a look in her eyes, a new sort of determination, that told him she was going to keep trying until it did. And he'd never known Dawn to fail at anything she'd been determined to do.

 

I needed to take another victim.

I'd found her only twelve hours earlier, and I knew she would be next. She'd been walking along the sidewalk down Main Street, having just left the independently owned coffee shop on the corner. It wasn't a Starbucks or a Dunkin' Donuts or a Tim Hortons. It wasn't a chain. It was what they call a mom-and-pop business, even though its owners were a pair of female lovers who'd made enough money in Manhattan to escape it.

I love Vermont. I love Shadow Falls. There isn't a franchise in the town, not from one end to the other. Everything is independently owned. Everyone is unique, not following society's notion of how to live. It's the most idyllic place in the world. I
love
it here.

Her name was Sally. She was taller than Dawn Jones, and a little thinner. Definitely more sophisticated. Her shoes, sunglasses and handbag were matched, black with the same silver metallic trim—not too much, just enough—and bearing a designer's initials artfully entwined in strategic spots. Her hair had that ironed-straight look that didn't come naturally to anyone not of Asian descent. Her skin tone was so even that I knew she wore a lot of makeup, but because I couldn't see the makeup, I also knew it was expensive. I suspected she was a fairly recent transplant from a big city. New York or Chicago or L.A. Probably L.A. Her light brown hair had blond streaks, and her arms and legs were deeply tanned.

I was probably doing her a favor. A sun worshipper like her would look like a well-worn baseball mitt in a few years, anyway.

She's not what you want, and you know it. There's not enough fight in her, not enough life in her to even make it worth snuffing out. Look at her. She's tired. She's complacent. Content. Bored. She's going through life on autopilot.

I frowned at the voice in my mind. “Look, it doesn't matter what I want. I'm not doing this for gratification this time.”

Bull-fucking-shit.

“I'm doing this because it has to be done. And as long as the rookie's on the loose, the crimes need to keep happening. It's the only way to make sure this goes down the way it ought to. It's the only way.”

She's got no connection to the university. It breaks the pattern. The rules.

“It'll throw them a curveball, keep them guessing.”

You'll get to Dawn Jones before this is over. You know you will.

“I won't. I don't want to kill her.”

You want to kill her more than I do. It's keeping you awake nights, you want it so bad.

“You're the one who wants that. And you're the one keeping me awake nights. The one trying to turn this into something it's not. But I'm telling you, I don't
have
to kill. Not anymore. I'm over that. You don't control me the way you used to.”

Right. You're killing again. At a rate you never came near before. Three in one week? Hell, man. You're relishing every freaking one like a blow job. But you're cured. Right.

“I'm not going to kill Dawn Jones.”

You're going to kill her last of all. You're just building up to it, thrilling to it in your mind with every one of these substitutes you kill in her place. You're saving her for last, because you know she's going to be the best of all of them. The best you've ever had. You're going to kill her slowly, maybe revive her and kill her again, and again, until there's no bringing her back. That's how good she'll be. And that's why you're waiting. She's going to be the culmination of your career, my friend.

“No way. You're wrong.”

We both know better. But let's get on with this. Your
mark's going to get nervous if she discovers you following her and arguing with yourself under your breath, you know. Besides, she's getting too far ahead. We need to know where she lives, so we can go visit her tonight. Damn, I'm aroused just thinking about it. I love you, you know. You give me so much freaking pleasure. I love you.

“And I hate you,” I whispered, but I picked up the pace all the same.

 

“Delicious,” Bryan said as he picked up the paper plates and carried them to the wastebasket.

“Yeah, it was good.” But he'd only said it to soothe her a little, Dawn knew that. The steaks had been tough and the sour cream a tad too sour. Baked potatoes from the microwave just didn't come close to the real thing. No crispy skins or roasted flavor. The best part of the meal had been the beer he'd tossed into their shopping cart. She was on her third.

She was angry with herself for feeling petulant and bitchy. If he didn't want her, he didn't want her, and you couldn't get mad at someone for not wanting you. It wasn't as if he had a choice. He felt what he felt. More pertinently, he didn't feel what he didn't feel. The thing was, why the hell had he been pestering her about whether or not she was staying, if he was no longer interested? Why even ask?

Maybe he'd only been curious or asking as a friend—a part of her family, really. Maybe she'd just read too
much into it. The look in his eyes. The way it felt when he touched her. Maybe he didn't feel any of that.

She was even angrier with herself for letting the way she was feeling on the inside bleed through to the outside, where he could see it and know. She was trying to fake it but failing pretty dismally. Hiding her feelings had never been one of her strengths.

She let him clean up, knowing it was his idea of a peace offering, and tried to focus on the autopsy report. There were lots of photos. It made her queasy, looking at photographs of the dead girl. It made her think about someone looking at photos of
her
dead body, if this murderous bastard ever caught up with her.

Right at that moment, a cold chill shot up her spine, the kind you feel when you suddenly realize that someone is standing close behind you. It hit so vividly that she gaped and swung her head around, expecting to see someone there.

No, not someone.
Him.
The Nightcap Strangler.

“Dawn? You okay?”

She pressed a hand to her heart, felt it racing. “He's going to come after me, Bryan. I feel it. He's going to come after me.”

Bryan crossed the room and touched her shoulder. “That's why we're here. So he can't find you.”

She nodded, closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath. “I know.”

“So is anything jumping out at you? From the autopsy report, I mean.”

“No, nothing so far.” She turned a little, enough
to make his hand fall from her shoulder, because she wanted a lot more from him than that. She tried to focus on the photos, the lists, everything in the report. “God, they've got everything here from the contents of her purse to what she was wearing. A New York Giants jersey. Wait a minute.
Wait a minute
.”

“What?” Bryan leaned over her, his warm breath on her neck too much.

She brushed a hand over her skin where his breath had touched her and flipped through the photos, setting aside the autopsy shots in favor of the ones of the crime scene. “There's New York stuff here, too. A Yankees cap on the bedpost. And look at the pennant above the bed where her body was found. Syracuse Orangemen.”

“So?”

“So according to the police report, Sara Quinlan was from Chicago.”

He looked, nodded and repeated, “So?”

“What do you mean, so? Why isn't there anything about the Bears or the Bulls or the White Sox?”

He shrugged. “Maybe she attended Syracuse University. She was a grad student, right?” Leaning over and reaching past her, a move that made his shoulder brush against hers, he fanned out papers until he found the background check that had been done on the victim. “Illinois State. Huh.”

“There's no connection to Syracuse anywhere in here, Bryan.”

“That's a little odd, but—”

“Who identified the body?”

Bryan grabbed a stack of papers and scooted around on the bed, so he was leaning back against the headboard with his legs stretched out in front of him and the pages on his lap. Dawn followed suit, grabbing a stack of what remained, taking up the same position beside him before thinking better of it, and started skimming.

“The 9-1-1 call was made by her roommate,” she said, when she found the information she sought. “Olivia Dupree.”

“The body was claimed by a cousin from out of state,” Bryan said. “A Natalie Quinlan, as soon as it was cleared for release after autopsy. It was cremated.” He lifted his head, met her eyes. “What are you thinking?”