“But I was rather hoping you and your team, well, I was hoping that you’d have my back.” Because the local cops hadn’t exactly been cooperative. They’d kept the homeless man—a guy that they’d finally figured out was named Stan Tatum—for a psych evaluation because of the attack. But other than what Emma knew would be a cursory evaluation, the cops hadn’t been exactly concerned or really buying the story that some mysterious man had kidnapped a sixteen-year-old runaway.
“You want protection,” Dean said, as his fingers tightened around her arm. She looked down, her eyes falling to his hand. “Emma?”
“Why is it . . . that every time you touch me . . . I feel warmer?” She looked up in time to see his eyelids flickering. “Never mind. Right. I want protection, and in return”— Emma exhaled—“I’ll help you find Julia.” She saw the doubt on his face, and that pissed her off. “I’m far more useful than you think.” And not just as bait.
More silence. She was starting to think he was a master at the art of saying nothing. But he didn’t let her go. He just kept staring at her, and, finally, Dean nodded.
Emma released the breath that she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.
“But we do this my way,” Dean was quick to say. “You follow all my orders, understand?”
Oh, she was terrible, absolutely horrible at following orders.
“Emma?”
“I’ll do whatever is necessary to find the girl.” And to stop the man out there . . . the man who’d made the mistake of trying to target Emma, too.
The last man who’d tried to hurt her . . . the man who’d used his knife on her and attacked Emma’s father . . .
She’d killed him.
CHAPTER THREE
SO WHO THE HELL IS EMMA CASTILLE?”
Dean glanced up at the question, and his gaze met the old stare of Wade Monroe. Wade had been working at LOST from the very beginning—Dean had met the guy the very day they opened the doors to their new venture. Since that time, Dean had worked dozens of cases with the tough, ex–Atlanta homicide detective. Wade was a take-no-shit kind of guy, a man who didn’t have much time for emotions but was more about action.
Dean liked the guy, he respected him . . . and he knew Wade’s secrets.
But he doesn’t know mine. Only one person at LOST did, and Gabe was a fucking vault. The man didn’t share the secrets that his friends gave him.
“Want me to take that one?” This voice was softer, feminine and belonged to Dr. Sarah Jacobs. Sarah was petite, with dark chocolate eyes and jet-black hair. She was also the person on the team he normally avoided the most . . . since Sarah was the one who liked to screw with minds.
She was the shrink, the profiler who slid into killers’ minds far too easily. Mostly because that was a family skill.
“Emma Castille is twenty-five, self-employed, with no family in the New Orleans area,” Sarah began.
Shit, so she’d been researching Emma. He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, he was the one who’d originally tipped Sarah off about Emma. And now that Emma thought she was joining their hunt . . . well, the whole team would need to know about her.
“She’s a scam artist,” Dean said. But then he frowned. Those words just felt wrong. He had a flash of Emma’s bright eyes. Her winking dimples. He shook his head. “No.” The word sounded like an angry growl coming from him, and he saw Sarah glance his way in surprise. “Her father was a con artist. About ten years ago, he said that he’d figured out who abducted the two Donovan twins . . .”
Twin girls who’d gone missing from a rich suburb in Dallas. The parents had been frantic. A ransom note had arrived, demanding $1 million. The ransom had been paid immediately, but the girls hadn’t been returned. The days had stretched into weeks, and the Donovans had grown desperate.
The mother had started calling in psychics to help her find her daughter.
One of those so-called psychics had been John Castille . . . and his daughter, Emma. John had spent time at the family home. Talked with the twins’ friends. And suddenly, he’d been saying that he knew where the girls were. That he knew who’d taken them.
“I remember that case,” Wade said quietly as he gave a slow nod. “Castille pointed the finger at one of the twins’ boyfriends, right? A kid named Phillip Trumane. Only the guy just happened to be the governor’s nephew, so no one bought the story.”
“No,” Dean said as he rubbed the back of his neck. “No one bought it.” They were in Jackson Square, seated at a bench under the sprawling branches of an oak tree. No one else was close by, and Dean figured this was the most privacy they were going to get right then.
“John Castille was right, though,” Sarah said. Dean wasn’t surprised that she’d found out all the details of the story. When it came to killers, Sarah was an expert. “He and his daughter located a property that belonged to the boy’s family. They went out to the old cabin, and when they went in—”
“The boy attacked them.” Because the kid had long since lost his grasp on reality. He’d been in that cabin, with the dead girls and the money, and he’d gone at John Castille with a knife.
“When the police finally arrived,” Sarah continued as she stood and walked closer to the tree. “Only Emma and her father were still alive. He made it to the hospital, he backed up her story, and then he . . . he didn’t make it out of surgery.”
No, he hadn’t. And Emma had been left alone.
Wade gave a low whistle. “And that’s the woman we’re protecting?”
Actually . . . Dean craned his head to the side. Emma was walking toward them at that moment. She was wearing a light blue skirt that floated around her hips and a white T-shirt that molded itself so very well to her—especially to her full breasts. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, and a pair of sunglasses covered her eyes. She was beautiful, too sexy, and trouble. “That’s the woman.”
Wade shot to his feet.
Sarah turned to face her, cocking her head as she studied Emma’s approach.
Emma had left him a few hours earlier. She’d asked for his protection, then basically vanished. So much for a partnership. But she’d told him that she had loose ends to tie up . . . and that she’d needed to shop. Considering that all of her clothing had been slashed, he understood that part. But just going out on her own? How the hell had that made sense if she really thought she was being targeted by a killer?
Unless she was still trying to position herself as bait. Trying to draw the man’s attention by showing him that she was out there, alone.
“Seriously,” Emma said with a sigh as she closed in on them. “Could you and your team stick out more?” Her brilliant gaze was still hidden by her glasses as she turned to first study Sarah. “Guessing you’re the shrink.” Then she nodded to Wade. “Ah, a cop.” Her head tilted a bit to the left as she seemed to consider him a bit more. “Ex-cop, with a whole lot of attitude.”
“You told her about us?” Wade snapped.
And, no, he hadn’t told Emma about them. He hadn’t even mentioned Wade’s name to her.
“Please.” Now Emma sounded annoyed. “I tagged you as a cop five seconds after I saw you. Try changing your posture, maybe letting go of that battle-ready tension you’ve got. Stop looking at everyone in the park as if they’re about to commit crimes. You might as well be flashing a neon sign.” She took off her glasses and perched them on the top of her head. “Inconspicuous, you’re not.”
Wade stared into her eyes. Just stared.
Dean’s own eyes narrowed.
“How’d you know I was the shrink?” Sarah asked, and for once, Sarah sounded curious. Sarah didn’t usually show much emotion at all. Like Dean, she understood the value of control. But he knew that her reasons for reining in her emotions were a lot different from his own.
Sarah’s father had been a serial killer, a real vicious bastard. Sarah had made it her life’s goal to stop killers like him.
“I knew because you were standing away fr
om the others. Studying them. Watching their body language, listening with your head cocked as you tried to look for deeper meanings in everything they said.”
Sarah’s eyes widened, and she took a step toward Emma. “You’re not what I expected.”
Emma shrugged. “I try not to be.”
Sarah’s gaze slid over Emma’s shoulder. “You came in the entrance near the cathedral?”
“I was turning over my booth to my friend Lisa. She’d wanted the spot for a while.”
Wade cleared his throat. “Your booth?”
“Emma gives readings,” Dean said. He didn’t like that Wade had moved closer to Emma. The guy had a reputation with the ladies—and the man did not need to be staring at Emma as if she were a new dessert on his menu.
“Like father, like daughter?” Wade asked, but then his eyes widened in horror, and he glanced at Sarah. “Shit, I didn’t mean—”
“I haven’t asked about your family tree,” Emma said, cutting through his words with an icy tone. “But I suspect I’ll find plenty of skeletons there. I mean, there are two reasons men become cops. At least, in my book.”
“What are those reasons?” It was Sarah who asked that question. Her face had paled at Wade’s careless words. Sarah wasn’t attacking, though, not like Emma. Sarah didn’t attack, she withdrew.
Emma comes out fighting.
Dean crossed to Emma’s side. His shoulder brushed hers.
“Men become cops because they want to be heroes, they want to save the day.” Emma paused. “Or else they’re trying to atone . . . for their own crimes.” Her gaze swept over Wade. “I think I know why you picked up a shield, but the real question is . . . what made you put it down?”
Wade swore and backed up.
Emma flashed her smile. The one that showed her dimples. Her harmless, I’m-innocent smile. The smile that was so very deceptive.
And sexy.
Hell, he was starting to think that just breathing was sexy—when Emma was the one inhaling. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Not what I expected at all,” Sarah said again. She bit her lip, then asked, “How many men did you pass on the way to us?”
“Five,” was Emma’s immediate reply.
“How many couples?”
Dean’s brows climbed. Was Sarah quizzing her? It sure sounded that way.
“Just one couple. College kids. She was a redhead from Alabama, and he was a surfer from California.”
How the hell did she know that? Dean looked over his shoulder.
“He trained you.” Sarah took another step toward Emma. “Taught you, didn’t he?”
Emma nodded. “My father always said that if people just paid more attention to what was happening around them, they’d see a whole new world.”
Sarah smiled. It was such a rare sight that Dean blinked. “I think you see the world very differently from everyone else,” Sarah said, and her voice held a note that could have been relief.
But Emma’s own smile vanished. “Don’t you?”
Sarah gave a little nod. Then she offered Emma her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Emma Castille.”
Emma’s fingers curled around Sarah’s. “I think you actually mean that.”
“I do.” A pause. “I’m Sarah Jacobs.”
There was no recognition on Emma’s face. Maybe she’d never heard about Sarah’s father. He’d been incarcerated for the last fifteen years, but before then, he’d sure been splashed in the media plenty.
Emma inclined her head. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Sarah.”
Wade closed in, offered his hand to her, too. “I hear you’re going to be working with us.”
Dean didn’t like the way the guy held so tightly to Emma’s hand. And Wade held it for way too damn long. “If being your bait counts then, yes,” Emma said, “I’m working with you.”
Wade hadn’t let her go yet. “Aren’t you afraid?” Then he frowned and looked down at their joined hands. He pulled his fingers from hers but didn’t let her go, not completely.
Dean knew the ex-cop was studying the scars on Emma’s hand. Scars that crisscrossed her inner arm and were very clear in the bright sunlight.
“No,” Emma replied softly. “I’m not afraid. I learned a long time ago that being afraid is a waste of energy.” Her delicate shoulders rolled back. “When do we get started? That girl is out there, he has her, and I don’t think Julia has a lot of time.”
No, Dean didn’t think that Julia had a lot of time on her side, either. The odds were against the abductor keeping Julia alive for this long. If the girl had just been a runaway, the situation would have been completely different.
But Dean believed someone had taken Julia. “We need to talk with Stan Tatum again. Maybe the guy has sobered up and can give us more information.” Because that man was the last one to have seen Julia.
“Some perps do keep their victims alive for . . . longer periods of time.” Sarah’s voice was so soft that Dean had to strain in order to hear it.
Emma didn’t speak.
“If the perp enjoys hurting his prey,” Sarah continued, “he’ll let her live longer.”
Emma’s shoulder brushed against Dean. He glanced over at her, surprised that she’d moved closer to him.
“I’ll talk to Stan,” Wade said. “The cops still have him down at the precinct.”
Because they’d put him in the drunk tank. They’d said that they would send him for a psych evaluation, but Dean hadn’t exactly been holding his breath on that part. The station had been full to bursting last night—and, he suspected—that was just a normal occurrence.
“I’ll see what I can learn and get back with you two,” Wade promised.
“I’ll come with you,” Sarah said.
Dean nodded. “Then Emma and I will head back to The Mask.” Because he wanted to survey that place in the light of day. Maybe the perp had left something behind. A clue that could lead them to Julia.
“Then let’s do this,” Wade said, as his eyes narrowed. “Because Julia is out there . . . and she’s waiting on us to bring her home.”
SHE’D BEEN AFRAID to go home. Afraid of the pain that waited there.
But there was so much more to fear.
Julia didn’t strain against the ropes any longer. What was the point? They’d already sliced deeply into her wrists, she’d bled and bled . . . and there was no escape.
So she just waited now. In the darkness. It was such a complete and total darkness. No matter how hard she strained her eyes, she couldn’t see anything.
Just the dark.
He wasn’t there any longer. He’d left her, but he’d promised to be back.
She believed his promises.
Her stomach growled loudly, and she felt the clench in her gut. Julia didn’t know how long it had been since she’d eaten or drank anything. She’d screamed for a while, and that had just made her throat feel even more parched.
Screaming had done no good. He’d seemed to . . . like her screams.
He hadn’t hurt her too much, though. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he was just some sick freak who liked to scare girls. Maybe he’d let her go when he came back. Maybe she’d be able to go home again.
Her mom might not be mad when she went back. Everything might be okay.
Julia heard the squeak of the door. At that soft sound, her heart thundered in her chest. He’s back.
She licked her lips, but her mouth was so dry there was no moisture to spare. Her lips were chapped, cracked, and there was nothing she could do for them. “Please . . .” Julia whispered. “Let me go.”
Silence. Maybe she’d imagined that squeak. Maybe he wasn’t back. Had he been gone for hours? Or minutes? Julia wasn’t sure.
She felt his fingers, brushing over her cheeks. “It’s not time to let you go yet . . . you’re not ready.”
A sob built within her.
“But soon . . . so soon.” Then his fingers were gone.
Her breath heaved out in franti
c gasps.
“I have to make you ready first.”
Then pain hit her. Sharp, stabbing. Deep. She screamed then, a high, frantic sound.
“Don’t worry,” he soothed her. “I didn’t cut anything major.”
He’d stabbed her. The psychotic bastard had stabbed her!
“You’ve brought someone to me. Someone I’ve been waiting for. Payback . . .”
The pain wasn’t stopping. She could feel blood soaking her side. The knife was still in her side, and the pain rolled through her. Every breath she took just seemed to make the blood gush from her that much faster. “Please . . .”
“I should thank you, Julia. You’ve opened a whole new world to me.”
The knife twisted. She shuddered in agony.
“So how about I give you a sporting chance, hmm?”
Did that mean . . . he was going to let her go?
“Let’s just see what you can survive.”
Julia whimpered.
BOURBON STREET WAS different during the day. Oh, there were still people out drinking. Still bars open. Emma knew that the bars stayed open twenty-four/seven. And with the all-day mimosas that so many places offered, drinks would always be on hand.
But the area was much quieter. Emptier.
The streets had already been cleaned. They were cleaned each day. And she could see the soapy residue draining away in the gutters.
She and Dean had walked over from the square, a walk that had been taken mostly in silence. When she’d passed her old booth, Lisa had already been at work. Lisa was one of the few people in the area Emma thought of as a friend. Like Emma, Lisa worked at the crystal shop. Lisa was sweet, open, a woman close to Emma’s own age and with dark hair that was nearly the same length as Emma’s.
On the outside, Emma knew that she and Lisa shared a passing similarity, but on the inside . . .
We’re night and day.
Lisa’s past wasn’t marked with darkness, not the way Emma’s was. Lisa was happy, in love with a jazz performer. She was—
“Looks like the police roped the place off.”
Dean’s low voice drew Emma’s gaze. A line of yellow police tape had been put up around The Mask. “Like that’s going to stop us,” she muttered. Tape? Really? That would stop no one in the area.