“You think the reporters are going to pull up your story again, don’t you?” She moved toward the wooden railing on the porch.
“I think Spawn already has. I expect to see him blasting the news from every rooftop soon enough.”
“I’m sorry.” Her shoulders slumped. “I had no idea when I hired LOST—”
He went to her, curled his fingers around her shoulder, and turned Bailey to face him. “I’m a big boy,” he said, flashing her a smile. “I can handle whatever crap they throw at me.”
“What about your sister? I don’t want them wrecking her life.”
He thought of Ana, and his smile grew a bit more. “Ana can handle herself. Don’t worry about that.” She’d made it her mission in life to do so. Delicate, fragile-looking Ana . . . she’d become one of the fiercest bounty hunters in the U.S. The woman had tracked down—and taken in—some of the worst criminals out there. Hunting was her specialty. And she used her delicate looks to her advantage. Her prey never saw past her slow smile and her wide eyes . . . not until it was too late.
Of course, she wasn’t tracking down criminals any longer. Ana worked with him, at LOST. Now she was hunting the missing.
And if I know her, she’ll be here all too soon. A good thing. The way this case was going, Asher could use some backup. It would be nice to have someone else he trusted completely in this town.
“I . . . I don’t want to hide, Asher.” She turned to face him fully. “I know that is what Wyatt wants. And maybe it’s even what I should do, but I’m tired of hiding. That’s all I’ve done for the last six months.”
He waited, knowing there was more to come.
“I hired you because I wanted to find that missing woman. I still want to find her. And that house last night—I think it’s important. That cabin is a lead we have to use.”
He’d been hoping Bailey would want to keep up the search. But if she’d been ready to back away, hell, even if she wanted to pack up and get out of the city, he would have understood.
Running had never been his thing. Fighting—getting answers . . . hell, yeah. Game the fuck on.
“I’m sure Wyatt is already digging into property records to see who owns that place. But we can do our own investigating, too, right?”
To get intel like that . . . “All we need is a computer.”
She nodded. “Then let’s find out. I want to talk to the owner.”
So did Asher. Because when someone died on your property, hell, yes, the owner tended to look real damn suspicious.
“No more hiding,” Bailey said again.
And he nodded.
“This is ridiculous.” The woman with the midnight black hair and golden skin glared at Wyatt even as her fingers tapped against the edge of his desk. “I’m brought into this office by armed deputies? Because why—my grandfather left me some old cabin in his will months ago?” Her lips tightened. “This is total bullshit.”
His gaze moved from her tapping fingers up to her face. Her pale blue eyes were lined with dark shadow, making them appear even bigger. The edge of a black tattoo peeked from the top of her shirt, reaching up to curl around her neck. Was that a snake? Hard to tell for sure.
“You see something you like?” Her words held a definite edge.
Wyatt yanked his gaze back to her face. “You saw that pack of reporters outside.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hard to miss them.”
He walked around, taking his time, and propped his hip on the edge of his desk. The position put him over her, a stance of power. Yeah, he’d read up on that power stance BS a time or two. When he’d been an eager deputy looking to climb the ladder of success.
He wasn’t so eager anymore, but he still used the tricks he’d learned.
“When was the last time you were at your grandfather’s property?”
“Um, never?” But then she shook her head. “Okay, that’s a total lie.”
Good of her to admit it.
“I went out there a few weeks ago, actually. Hadn’t been there in ages before that little trip, though. I’m not exactly the woodsy type.” Her blood-red nails tapped again. “I just wanted to check around. I was going to put the place up for sale soon, so I figured I’d better make certain nothing of any value was up there.”
So now if I find anything there that links back to you, you’ve very nicely and neatly explained it all away with a fairly recent visit.
“Why are you asking about that place, anyway?”
He was curious about her reaction to this reveal. “Because a woman was murdered in your cabin last night, Ms. Drake.”
Carla Drake. It had been easy enough to find her—she had an art studio in nearby Asheville. He’d tracked down the property records for that cabin, found out Carla had inherited the cabin after her grandfather died. She was his only heir. The unlucky lady who’d inherited an old, nearly forgotten cabin—a cabin that a killer had decided to use. And that alone makes huge freaking red flags fly in my mind. Did Carla know the killer? The copycat he was after? Wyatt was determined to find out.
At his words, her mouth parted in surprise and her eyes widened a bit more. “Sorry. Did you just say someone was killed up there?” Her fingers weren’t tapping any longer.
“That’s exactly what I said.”
She sucked in a quick breath.
“The victim was a young woman named Hannah Finch. She went hiking and someone . . . a killer stabbed her in your cabin.”
Carla shot to her feet. “You think I did it!” She looked frantically around the small office. “That’s why I’m here—why you hauled me through that crowd of reporters! You think I’m some kind of killer?” Her voice rose with each word.
“Ms. Drake.” Wyatt kept his own voice quiet and level. “Ms. Drake, calm down. I’m merely asking you a few questions. My job is to find the perp who killed Hannah, and to do that job, I have to talk with you.” I need to interrogate you because right now, hell, yes, I’m suspicious of you.
She was pacing and not calming down. “I went there once in the last few weeks. Just like I said. I might have stayed a few hours, but that was it. I even contacted a real estate agent. I can give you her name, if you want.” She paced faster. “Murdered. In my cabin? See, there’s a reason why I don’t like going into the mountains. Bad things happen up there.” She shuddered. “Do you know how close that place is to the Death Angel’s kill grounds? I mean, that shit just creeps me out.”
“Actually, yes, I do know.” He exhaled slowly as he revealed, “I was the one who found your grandfather’s body.”
“You did what?”
“We canvassed that area.” Too many times to count. And Bailey had been so certain that another victim was out there. I did believe her, at first. I went back . . . and discovered Jerome Drake’s body. “I went to your grandfather’s cabin during the search and that’s when . . . I found him.” What had been left. They’d been lucky, though, no animals had gotten inside that cabin.
“We didn’t exactly get along,” Carla said, glancing down at her hands. Another tattoo slid around her wrist. “I was the wild child he never understood.” A faint smile curved her lips. “And he was the old guy who couldn’t stand it when I liked to have fun.” Her eyes squeezed closed. “I hate that he died up there like that, all alone. I know you probably think I’m a really shitty person because I didn’t go check on him . . .” She stopped. Shrugged. “Maybe I am a shitty person.”
How was he supposed to respond to that? “I’m sorry for your loss.” The words seemed wooden, but he needed to say them, right? That was the deal. And it was a good law enforcement technique, playing the sympathetic card. Gaining her trust.
But at his words, her eyes immediately flew back open. “Try saying it like you mean it next time. I’ve found that works better.”
He blinked in surprise.
“I’m sorry about the woman who died.”
She actually did sound as if she meant that.
“Some crazy ba
stard must have broken into the cabin. Probably realized it was—for all intents, I guess—abandoned.”
Yeah, some crazy bastard. That was certainly possible.
She blew out a hard breath. “I don’t know anything that can help you. I mean, feel free to search that property to your heart’s content, and I hope you find some clues to help you figure out who that nut job is, but . . . I don’t know what else to say.” Her hands rose and fell in a helpless gesture.
Wyatt nodded. “We will be searching the property.” He already had cadaver dogs on the way, just in case . . .
Just in case this turns into another nightmare.
“I’ll have my deputy take you back home.” Wyatt rose and headed toward her.
She stepped closer to him. “Did she suffer?”
His brows rose.
“That poor woman,” Carla said with a sad sigh. “Did she suffer in that cabin? Did he . . . hurt her for a very long time? I read that the Death Angel did that. That he kept his prey and tortured them for hours. Days.”
“We believe Hannah Finch was killed quickly.” Not that it was much consolation. Wyatt was sure her last moments had been filled with terror and pain.
“I guess that’s something.” She rolled back her shoulders. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, Bliss, but, well, I’d be lying again.”
“Do you lie a lot?”
She headed toward the door, her hips doing a little roll. “Only every chance I get.” Then she was gone. He saw his deputy hurry toward her, probably ready to offer her a ride. He’d had Ben keep the roads hot that day.
Wyatt went to his window so he could watch the scene outside. Ben followed Carla and just when they were about to reach the patrol car, Richard Spawn reached out and touched Carla’s shoulder.
That son of a bitch.
But when Carla turned to look at the reporter, a wide smile split her face. And she stopped . . .
And started talking.
What in the hell?
His hand pressed to the windowpane. The two of them sure looked cozy as all hell. Hardly what he expected, and those warning bells in his head chimed even louder—
“Um, Sheriff?”
A feminine voice came from behind him—like, right behind him. Wyatt whipped around, his hand automatically going toward his sidearm.
Then he saw her.
Dark hair. Heart-shaped face. Eyes so big and deep . . . brown but littered with brilliant specks of gold. Her lips were full, red, and a faint scar slid over her upper lip.
“You are the sheriff now, right? I mean, I thought I heard you got bumped up in the chain of command recently.” She waved a delicate hand. “Something about the other guy cutting and running because he couldn’t handle another case going to shit with him in charge?”
He’d never seen this woman in his life. Mostly because Wyatt didn’t think a guy could forget a woman like her.
Has to be a reporter. “I’m not giving any comments on this story yet.” That order had come straight from the governor. He was supposed to wait until Dr. Moore finished the autopsy, and then they’d see just what they wanted to reveal to the media.
Her brows—delicately shaped and as dark as her hair—arched. “How good for you.”
He couldn’t catch an accent with her words.
“But I’m not here for your comments. I’m here because my boss, Gabe Spencer, wanted to extend LOST’s assistance to you on this investigation.”
LOST. Oh, hell—
She offered a delicate hand to him. “My name is Ana Young, and I’m here to help you track down a killer.”
Chapter Nine
When Bailey pushed open the door of the little art shop, the bell above her head gave a happy jingle. “Hello?” Bailey called out as she stepped inside. Asher followed in right behind her.
The scent of paint hit her. Paint and some other, deeper, stronger vapor that had her nose crinkling. Canvases were all around. Brushes. Open cans of paint. But that smell was so strong. Was it a paint cleaner? Remover? Or—
Bailey heard the fast pad of footsteps. “Sorry!” A woman with jet black hair and a wide smile hurried from the back of the shop. She wore a paint-splattered apron. “I was working on a new project in the back—”
“You.” Bailey stared at her, and the world seemed to stop.
The dark hair. The skin. The wide eyes. Blue eyes. Bailey hadn’t remembered the shade of her eyes until then. Pale blue.
The woman’s voice seemed to echo in her head. Help me. Please, help me!
“Me, what?” The dark-haired woman frowned at her, then her gaze slid over Bailey’s shoulder toward Asher. Her smile flashed again, flirtatiously. “Hello, there, handsome. In the mood to buy some art?”
Bailey stepped closer to the other woman. She wanted to grab her and shake her. “I know you.”
The woman’s brows shot up. “Well, then you have an advantage over me.” She gave a light, tinkling laugh. “But feel free to look around my shop. If you see something you like—”
“You were there.” Bailey was shaking. “You were in that cabin, screaming for help.”
And the woman—Asher had said her name was Carla Drake—stumbled back a step. “Excuse me?” Her face paled.
“I remember you,” Bailey said again. Her temples were pounding. Her stomach churning. Asher had researched property records online, and they’d discovered that this woman, this Carla Drake, owned the cabin. And that she owned this little art shop in Asheville, North Carolina. They’d gone there to question the woman about the cabin, but Bailey had never expected . . . “I knew you were real.”
Carla shook her head. “Okay, I don’t have time for crazy. You need to go.” She pointed imperiously toward the door and Bailey saw the flash of the dark tattoo on her wrist. A butterfly? Yes, it was a butterfly with wide wings, dark and muted.
Asher’s fingers curled around Bailey’s shoulder. “You’re sure it’s her?”
Bailey stared at Carla. Yes, she got it—she couldn’t remember the killer’s face. So maybe he doubted that she remembered this woman, but she did.
Because she ran out.
She left me there. I saw her. I. Saw. Her.
Bailey’s gaze slid from the butterfly tattoo back up to the woman’s face. “I bet you have another tattoo, one on your right shoulder. Bet it looks just like mine.”
And she saw it—the raw terror that flashed on Carla’s face. “Get. Out.” Her words were nearly a yell. “Get out or I will call the cops right now!”
“Call them,” Asher dared her. “Because I think Sheriff Bliss would love to talk with you.”
Carla shook her head frantically. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this to me.” Her voice had gone ragged in an instant. “Please, I’m begging you.”
Please, help me!
“Get out of my shop.” Tears fell down Carla’s cheeks. “Just get out and forget all about me.”
Bailey knew with one hundred percent certainty that she was staring at the missing victim. And the woman was splintering apart before her eyes. “I—”
“Get out.” A ragged whisper. More tears fell. “Just . . . leave.”
Bailey didn’t want to leave. She’d been thinking about this woman—having nightmares about her—for months. The victim wasn’t some figment of her imagination. She was real. She was alive. She’d gotten away scot-free.
And left me.
Asher was a solid wall behind Bailey. So strong. So warm. She could really use his warmth right then because Bailey felt as if she were freezing on the inside. Abruptly, she turned away from the other woman, desperate to get out of there. “Asher, let’s go.”
“But—”
Bailey couldn’t say more to him right then. She pushed toward the door.
And then she heard Asher’s voice. Angry, rumbling, behind her. “Why did you leave her there? She tried to save you. You just—”
“Who do you think set the fire?” Carla rasped back as tears trickled down her cheeks
. “And called the cops? That was me. I did everything I could that night, and, now, I just want to be left alone. Alone. I don’t want this. Not any of it.”
This. Bailey knew what she meant. The circus show that would come with the reporters. The mad media attention. The endless questions from the cops.
Bailey hadn’t wanted it, either. She also hadn’t wanted nightmares of a woman screaming for help.
She shoved open the door. The bell jingled. The sound was ridiculously happy. She rushed outside, her feet slapping against the sidewalk. Cars bustled by her on the street. The buildings rose up, but the mountains towered behind them. Bailey tried to suck in a deep breath. One, another. Another.
Her heart felt as if it were about to leap out of her chest.
She turned back and saw that Asher had followed her. He was pulling out his phone. Calling someone. “No!” She grabbed his hand, stopping that call. Because she knew just who he’d been calling.
Wyatt.
“The sheriff has to know.” Asher was grim. “It’s all related, Bailey. Every fucking thing. You think the killer just picked her cabin by chance? No, He knows who she is . . . and he sent her a message. The same way that he sent a message to you. He wants you both to know what he’s doing. That he’s out there.”
Goose bumps covered her arms. “She just wants her life.”
“And if she’s going to keep living, she needs protection. The man who killed Hannah is still on the loose. Maybe he is just some copycat, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t incredibly dangerous. Incredibly fucking sick. He is fixated on you and Carla. He may think he has to finish the job that the Death Angel started. And to do that . . .”
Her gaze darted to the art shop. “He has to kill us.” No, no, no. I want to be safe. And Carla—she just wants her life. To be normal.
“I’m calling the sheriff.” His voice was flat. “He needs to know what’s happening here.”
She’d been so focused on finding the missing victim that Bailey hadn’t stopped to consider—what happens when I do find her?
Now she knew. An image of Carla’s tear-streaked face flashed through her mind. I can remember her face so easily . . . why can’t I remember his?