Killing Me Softly (8 page)

He shrugged. “Then maybe you don't need them anymore.”

“But, Bryan, you don't understand. I
wanted
to see one. I wanted to get Bette to tell me who killed her. But…even at your house, even sitting on the bed where she
died,
I didn't—”

“You went
inside?
Dammit, Dawn, I told you not to do that. It's a crime scene.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're missing the point. I don't think I…have it anymore. I think I've lost it, Bryan.” She got up off the sofa and paced to the TV, bent to take the DVD out and replace it in its case, just for something to do so she didn't have to watch him searching her face for answers she didn't have. “I've spent the past five years hiding from a curse—or a gift—that I didn't think I wanted. Or could even handle. My whole reason for moving so far was to get away from my dead father and his dead pals.”

“And now?” Bryan asked. “If you can't talk to dead people anymore, does that mean your reason for living on the West Coast is gone, too?” He came up behind her, closed his hands on her shoulders, turned her to face him. “Are you saying you're thinking you might stay, Dawn?”

She stared up at him and was scared to death by the hint of hope she saw beginning to light up behind his eyes. God, she didn't want to hurt him again. “I don't know. I mean, no, of course I'm not staying here. I've got a good job—”

“You're a genius with classic cars. You could get a good job anywhere.”

“It might come back,” she whispered. “Even though it's gone now, it might come back.”

“It might not.”

“But I think I…I
want
it to come back.”

Bryan frowned, blinking at her and looking almost as confused as she felt. “But you
hate
it.”

“I could help you, Bryan, if only I still had it.” She pressed her lips tight, lowered her eyes. “Dammit, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I turned my back on my gift. My father warned me there would be repercussions, but I just thought it was more rambling from a homicidal lunatic.”

“It was.”

“But now I don't know. I want it back, Bryan.”

He drew a deep breath. “Just for my sake?” he asked softly.

“Honestly? I don't know. I really don't know. Maybe I want it to come back just this once and then vanish forever. I don't know if it's ever coming back or if it's really gone for good, and I don't know if I'm staying here or going back to California. I don't know anything.

And that's why I can't…can't…I can't—”

“You can't let things get beautiful between us again.”

That was a hell of a way to put it. And yet it
had
been beautiful between them. It had been young and innocent and perfect. And she wanted it to be that way again. “It wouldn't be fair.”

“To you? Or to me?”

She licked her lips and lowered her head. “I need some time, Bryan.”

“I wish I could tell you to take all the time you want. That I can wait. But, Dawn, you know I might not have time to give you. And I really would like to settle things between us before time runs out. I know I said I didn't want to talk about the past, about us, but—”

“I have to believe we'll have time to work through things, to have that talk. We
will
. I promise.”

He looked into her eyes so deeply she felt as if he were touching her soul. “I'm going to hold you to that.”

She nodded, reached up to him and brushed his hair away from his forehead. Her fingers trembled against his skin, and her body seemed pulled toward his. More than anything in the world, she wanted to stand on tiptoe, give in to that pull and kiss him.

But it wouldn't be fair to him, or to herself. Her father's gift—the one she'd called a curse—had been the center of her existence for five years. Everything she'd done had been because of it. To think that it was just gone—that it might have been gone for quite some time now, and that everything she'd done had been utterly
without reason—shook her to the core of her being. She wasn't even sure who she was without it. Hating it, rejecting it, had been her life up to now.

“Thank you for coming home, Dawn,” Bryan said softly. “I'm really glad you're here.”

“So am I. Good night, Bryan.” And in spite of all her mind's warnings not to, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his. His lips were warm and soft and moist. The kiss was quick. Too quick. Then she turned and hurried up the stairs to her room without once looking back.

And then she hadn't slept.

 

She made a pot of coffee and took the first steaming cup out onto the front porch. It was 6:30 a.m., and already the sun was pouring down on the green, green hills of Blackberry.

She sat on the porch swing, wrapped snug and warm in one of the thick fluffy Turkish robes her mother offered for sale to customers. It was violet and bore the Blackberry Inn logo on the left breast. She wore matching slippers. Both welcome-home gifts that had been waiting in her room for her.

As she sat there sipping, listening to the chorus of birds singing madly, happy she'd decided to try the vanilla hazelnut creamer, a familiar Crown Victoria pulled into the drive.

She saw Nick Di Marco behind the wheel and waved hello, even as he cut the engine and got out. He smiled, but she knew immediately that something was wrong.
Nick's smiles tended to involve his entire face. This one barely even involved his mouth. Hands thrust into his pockets, he came up the steps, then leaned back against the railing, facing her.

“Hey, Dawnie,” he said, and gestured back toward his car. “What do you think you could do with this to make it pop? Anything?”

“Hell, yeah,” she said, eyeing the Crown Vic. “I'd start with some bodywork to smooth out the rough spots, then a custom paint job and some tinted glass. Then make it ride low and put in some ground effects. Shoot, Nick, she could be a real collectible, if you wanted.” She lifted a brow. “But you're not into that kind of thing, are you?”

“You kidding? I had the hottest car on campus, back in the day.” He grinned.

“Really? What kind?”

“You first. What do you drive, back at home?”

“Seventy-four Corvette Stingray. Metalflake red, but a deep red, like wine, you know?”

“Convertible?”

“T-top. Immaculate. Not much to a collector, but I really love my car.”

“I'll bet you do.” He lowered his head, shook it slowly. “That's such a pretty smile. I feel like a bastard for having to chase it away first thing in the morning. But I got no choice here.”

She braced herself for bad news. “I figured. You're here awfully early for a casual visit. And with it being an hour's drive, you must have been up at dawn.”

“Never really slept,” he said. “Everyone else still asleep?”

“Yeah. Beth's closed the inn to customers until this…well, you know.” She held up her mug. “Coffee?”

“No time.” He licked his lips.

“Well, why don't you tell me the bad news and get it over with, then? I can pass it along, and that way you can get back to work.”

He nodded, not even denying it. “Bryan might take it better coming from you, anyway,” he said. “Though I don't really know how anything could make this feel better at all.” He drew a breath, then said, “They've found another victim.”

She came out of her seat, because of all the theories that had been swirling in her brain as to what his bad news might be, that was not among them.

“Same description, same M.O., right down to the whiskey.”

“Oh, my God.”

“They're gonna arrest him today, Dawnie. No question in my mind on that. He's still the most likely suspect, and no judge in the world will risk leaving a serial killer running free. No matter what the newspaper says.”

“Bryan is no serial killer. You know that as well as I do.” She was staring at her slippered feet beneath the robe, but then her head came up fast. “But he was here all night. He was right here with me and Josh and Beth. It's proof that he's innocent.”

“Families lie to protect their own,” Nick said. “Juries
know that. And it could be said that he had time to slip out sometime during the night. But I suppose it's worth something. And I believe you. I believe in Bryan. That's why I brought these.” He pulled a manila envelope from under his jacket. “Crime-scene photos, the initial report, statement from the husband, who came in from working graveyard a little after midnight and found her.” She reached for them, but he pulled the envelope back. “I don't want you looking at this stuff, Dawnie. At least, not alone.”

She nodded, her expression solemn. “I won't, I promise. Thanks for the warning, Nick.”

He clasped her shoulder, his grip solid and warm.

“We're going to get him out of this, honey. I promise you that.”

“I know we will,” she said. Then she nodded at his car. “Go ahead. I'll…I'll break the news to everyone.”

“Hang in there, kid,” he told her. “I'll be back later on—when they come for him. Moral support and all that.”

“Yeah.” Tears burned behind her eyes, and her throat was tight. “Thanks. I'll tell him.”

Nick turned, jogged down the steps and back to his car. Seconds later, he was driving away.

There was a terrible feeling rising inside her. More than a feeling—a
knowing
. Something terrible would happen if Bryan went to jail. Something irreversible. Dawn waited until he was out of sight, and then she turned and ran into the house, up the stairs, flung Bry
an's bedroom door open and lunged into his room. “Bry!”

But he wasn't there.

She stood still for a second, a little breathless, listening, and she heard the shower. “Fine. Great, in fact.” Moving to his closet, she opened it, scanned the inside and yanked out a duffel bag. Then she went to the dresser, tugged it open and began pulling clothes out and stuffing them in the bag. A couple of pairs of jeans, some underwear, socks, T-shirts. She went to the closet, grabbed some button-down shirts and a hoodie, and crammed those inside, too.

She was still packing when he came in from the shower, and she felt him go still, staring at her for a long moment while she kept right on doing what she was doing. And then, finally, he spoke.

“Dawn? Hon, what are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“Yeah, that's obvious, but—” He moved to her, caught her shoulders in his hands to stop her frantic movements.

She stood staring at him, the duffel in one hand, his running shoes in the other. He had to see the tears in her eyes.

“Dawn, slow down and tell me what's going on, will you?”

She shook her head. “There's no time. We have to get out of here, Bry. We have to go now.”

“I'm not going anywhere until you tell me why.”

She looked frantically toward the door, as if expecting
the cops to kick it in at any moment. And then back at him. “Another woman was murdered. Nick was just here. He brought the file.” She nodded toward the bed where she'd dropped the envelope.

Bryan released her instantly and went to the bed, opening the envelope and pulling out the photos.

“Nick's sure they're going to arrest you today, Bry. We have to run. Something bad's going to happen if you go to jail. I can feel it.”

“I thought you'd lost your…gift? Which was talking to the dead, not ESP, as I recall.”

“I can't see dead people anymore, that's true, but this feels just as real. I know it in my gut, Bryan. We have to go. We have to hide out and solve this thing. I
feel
it, I'm telling you.”

“I'm not running. I'm a cop. If I run I look guilty, Dawn, don't you see that?”

“No.”

“We have to do this by the book. If they arrest me, my lawyer will arrange bail and I'll be out the next day—”

“Even if the judge thinks letting you out might cost another woman her life?” she asked. “No, Bryan. We have to go. We have to run.” With that she raced into the bathroom and grabbed things almost blindly, shoving them into the bag. His aftershave, his razor, his deodorant and toothbrush.

“I told you, I'm not… Oh, God.”

“What?” She lunged back into the bedroom, half expecting to see the police at the doorway. But instead
she only saw Bryan, his face as pale as one of the ghosts who used to plague her, his eyes stricken as he stared from the photo in his hand to Dawn, then back again. “What is it, Bryan?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, licked his lips. “You're right. We need to go. Let's grab your stuff from your room and—”

Moving fast, she snatched the photo from his hand.

The woman in the photo lay naked on a bed, completely uncovered, her eyes wide open, her swollen tongue protruding from her parted lips, bruises on her neck. Beside her, on the nightstand, was a shot glass with a scythe slicing through a rosebud painted on it. She didn't see what could have upset Bryan so much—and then she did.

Lying artfully on the girl's chest was a tiny gold heart-shaped locket. It had a delicate chain, and it was painfully familiar to Dawn.

Frowning, she yanked the other photos from Bryan's hand and flipped through them, ignoring the horror of looking into the face of death, focusing instead on finding a better shot of the locket.

And then she did. A close-up, just the locket and the dead woman's pale skin taking up the entire eight-by-ten glossy.

She swallowed hard, because the initials carved in the locket's face were clear. DJ & BK.

“That's my locket. The one you gave me for my birthday that summer when we first met,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I put a lock of my hair inside it.”

“It's still there.”

“Where was it the last time you saw it, Dawn?”