I didn't make any long-term decisions during that dinner date, but the awkwardness dissipated. While the old feelings didn't reignite, I could sense them there, waiting to kindle as we talked. When I said I had to head home right after dinner, he didn't argue, just walked me to my car and kissed me good night. It was a nice kiss. A long one, enough for me to feel that particular spark, but I didn't pursue it. We promised to talk later, and parted.
It was past midnight by the time I got home. My building was silent, which was nothing new. I'd been there almost a month, and I hadn't caught more than glimpses of my neighbors. Grace had sworn my apartment was the only vacancy, but by this point I suspected half the building was empty.
I stumbled into my apartment, bolted the door, and shed my shoes and dress as I walked. I collapsed into bed in my bra and panties.
As exhausted as I was, I didn't fall right to sleep. I'd had an espresso to keep me awake on the hour's drive home. So I hit the mattress and fell into twilight sleep, surfing between consciousness and slumber until I lost track of time and place. When I woke touching hair, I thought I was still with James, that I'd spent the night after all. I pushed my fingers into his hair and touched--
Cold skin. Ice-cold skin.
I jerked awake, flailing, the hair entwined in my fingers, and I scrambled away, the hair falling free. It hit my bare leg, and I stifled a yelp as I looked down to see--
My hair. Lying on the bed.
There was a confused, nightmare moment where my hands flew to my head . . . which was, of course, covered in hair. I leaned forward, my hands on the bed, eyes shut while I heaved breath. As the oxygen overload hit, I truly woke up, and I sat there, eyes still closed, shuddering, trying to throw off the nightmare. Finally, I straightened, opened my eyes, and--
I saw hair. Not mine this time. Dark, short hair, almost hidden under the tangled sheets. There was clearly no one else in bed with me. The dark hair peeked out, covering a lump barely bigger than--
The cat.
I yanked away the sheet, certain I'd see my poor cat. Someone had killed him and put him here, in bed--
Something rolled from the covers.
I saw skin and a nose and a mouth and--
Black pits where eyes should be.
The neck. Cut clean through. Ragged, bloodless skin and--
The head of Ciara Conway. In my bed.
As I backed away, I touched hair again. I let out a shriek before stuffing my fist in my mouth. A blond wig lay where I'd flung it. I looked at the head and then at the wig, and I tumbled out of bed, kicking free of the twisted covers, hitting the floor hard and then sprinting out the bedroom door.
Phone. I need my--
I spotted my purse on the floor. I grabbed it and yanked the clasp, contents spilling out, clinking and clicking over the hardwood floor. I snatched up my phone and hit the speed-dial number without realizing whom I'd called until I saw the name flash on the screen. Gabriel. I hit the End button. Then I stared at the phone.
Who should I call?
Seriously? You're asking who to call when there's a severed head in your bed?
I hit 9. Then 1. Then I stopped.
I needed to take a photo. Ciara Conway's head was in my bed, and this time I was getting proof.
My fingers shook and my gorge rose, but I went back to the bed, took the picture, and then I e-mailed it to myself and--
My phone vibrated. The sudden movement made me let go. As the phone hit the floor, I saw Gabriel's name pop up on the screen. Shit. I grabbed for it and--
Something hit the side of my skull. Pain exploded. Everything went dark.
CHAPTER TWELVE
My eyes fluttered open, then closed again, the effort too much, the light too painful. My hand clenched something soft and cool. Sheets. A pillow under my head. I was lying in bed. I opened my eyes. Blue. I saw pale robin's-egg blue. Then eyes; light irises ringed dark, gorgeous eyes framed with inky lashes and . . .
"Olivia."
The deep timbre was almost a rumble. I knew that voice. I knew those eyes. My brain sputtered, neurons firing, pain threatening to snuff out thought. Then . . .
Gabriel.
I was in bed. Looking up at Gabriel. My head pounding like I'd downed a fifth of tequila.
I shot up so fast my head and stomach lurched, and I retched. My hands flew to my mouth, my eyes clenched shut. I smelled plastic and felt something cool bump my cheek and opened my eyes to see my bedroom garbage pail shoved under my chin.
I shook my head and backed up as my stomach settled. As I swallowed, I looked around. I was in bed. Gabriel was there. But he was standing beside me, fully dressed, and--
And I was not fully dressed. I grabbed the sheet to cover up, then froze as I saw the bedding. A memory flashed, and my brain finally clicked on, reminding me of what I'd seen--
I scrambled up, knocking into Gabriel as I flew out of bed. I whirled and stood there, breath coming fast, stomach clenching as my gaze swept over the twisted sheets.
"Olivia?"
"There's . . . there's a . . ."
I looked around. No wig. No head. I grabbed the sheets and pulled them straight. Nothing. I ran to the other side of the bed. Nothing on the floor.
"Phone," I said. "I took a picture. I need--"
I stopped, staring at Gabriel, my brain still sputtering as it jammed puzzle pieces into place.
"I . . . I didn't mean to call you," I said.
It was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing to be worrying about. But that's what came out.
"I hit speed dial, and I wasn't . . . I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry. I . . ." I blinked and it was like moving through a room stuffed with cotton, everything soft and blurry and unfocused and thick.
"Sit down," he said.
"I . . . There was a . . ." I spun around. "My phone. I took a picture this time. I need--"
"Olivia? Sit."
When I didn't move, he propelled me down onto the edge of the bed. Pain shot through my skull. I winced. My fingers rose to touch the side of my head, but Gabriel caught them.
"Yes, you've got a goose egg, possibly a concussion." He crouched in front of me. "Do you know what day it is?"
"Sat--No, Sunday. June third."
"And your name?"
"Well, that one's tougher, since I apparently have two. I'll go with Olivia Taylor-Jones for today."
He lifted two fingers. "How many--?"
I swatted his hand away. "I'm fine." I paused. "You didn't need to come out."
"After you called me at one thirty in the morning, hung up, and wouldn't answer when I phoned back?"
That wasn't really an excuse for driving an hour to check on me. I could have been drunk-calling. Or dialed wrong and then couldn't face talking to him. If he had been convinced it was urgent, his aunt lived across the road and could have checked on me.
"I was already out," he said, reading my thoughts.
He looked as if he'd just gotten out of bed. His shirt was misbuttoned. His hair looked finger-combed, already falling forward in a cowlick, his cheeks dark enough that I was sure he hadn't shaved since Friday. Like hell he'd been "out." Not looking like that. Unless the bed had been "out" . . . as in "not his own."
"You should have just called Rose," I said.
"She doesn't keep a phone in her room." He straightened. "I'm here now, Olivia, so let's not argue about why. Tell me what happened."
"What hap--? Oh God." I jumped up too fast, and my stomach lurched. I doubled over, one hand to my head, the other to my mouth. He took me by the shoulders and tried to get me to sit down, but I shook my head. Even that movement made my stomach wobble.
"Olivia? Sit. You've taken a serious blow to the head. Tell me what happened so I can get you to the hospital."
"No, I don't need--I'm just--It's all muddled, and I'm having trouble--"
"--focusing. Which is why you need a doctor."
"My phone. Did he take--Or she--I didn't see--"
Gabriel had my pho
ne. I didn't notice where it had come from. I really was having trouble staying focused, my brain sharpening only to slide off into jumbled thoughts.
When I looked up, Gabriel was flipping through the photos on my phone, and I considered snatching it back. Not that there was anything private on it, but you don't go through someone else's phone any more than you'd hunt through her purse for breath mints. Yet my head hurt too much to work up any righteous indignation. Besides, he wouldn't have any interest in uncovering anything personal. He'd go straight to what he wanted: the photos.
"They've been erased," he said.
"What? No. There are the ones I took of the hound and--"
"They've all been erased." He continued tapping the screen, gaze fixed on it.
"Wait. I e-mailed it to myself--"
"Yes, I see." He stopped. Froze, actually, staring down at the tiny screen. I'd say he paled, but with his fair skin it wasn't easy to tell.
"That's Ciara Conway's . . ." he began.
"Head. In my bed. Which I discovered when I was half asleep and--" I took a deep breath. "It was her head. With a blond wig. I don't think that's in the photo. I threw it off over . . ." I pointed. "Over there. It's gone. Along with the head."
My foggy brain slid away and--
And I was still dressed in only my bra and panties.
Well, at least it's a nice set of bra and panties.
Yep, these were the thoughts going through my brain as I looked at a photo of a decapitated head on my bed.
I blinked hard and squeezed the bridge of my nose.
"You need to see someone," he said. "You might have--"
"--a wee bit of shock at waking to find a head beside me. Not a concussion or brain damage." I hope. "Where was I? Right. I sent the photo, and then I got hit. I didn't see my attacker. I presume he--or she--was in here the whole time. Am I supposed to do something? I mean, obviously, yes. I should have been on the phone to the police, not my ex-lawyer . . ."
"There's no evidence. The police would have presumed you had a nightmare and fell out of bed."
"Until I showed them the photos."
"Even then . . ." He didn't say more, but I knew what he meant. Even with this photo of a weirdly bloodless, almost waxen, eyeless head, lying on my sheets, they'd have thought someone had played an elaborate prank on me. Or worse, that I was playing one on them. I was Eden Larsen, child of serial killers.
"So now what?" I said.
"Now you get that security system. This is obviously a very serious threat--"
"I mean what do I do about Ciara Conway?"
A flicker of annoyance, as if I'd interrupted him with something meaningless, like "Umm, I'm not wearing pants." We didn't have proof that Ciara Conway was dead, and it wasn't like he gave a damn about her. The important thing was . . .
What was the important thing? Making sure I was safe? Why? Because he sure as hell didn't give a damn about that, either, not unless someone was paying him to, and--
My hand shot to my head, and I winced as fresh pain stabbed through it.
Gabriel moved closer, bending down. "Olivia . . ."
"Okay. So someone killed Ciara Conway and is leaving body parts, dressed like me, as a warning. Locking my doors isn't going to solve the problem."
"Which is why you need a security system."
Not what I meant. But what did I mean? I have to get to the bottom of this, and I need your help.
Fresh pain stabbed through my head, bringing a wave of nausea.
If Gabriel wants to help me find a security system, wonderful. Let that be the extent of his involvement. He'll be happy with that. He's sure as hell not going to suggest--
"We should look into this," he said.
I ran to the bathroom and heaved into the toilet. One would think my reaction was all the answer he needed, but when I finished puking, he was standing there, calmly holding a towel. He handed it to me and then waited to make sure I was done vomiting before saying, "If you won't see a doctor tonight, you need to do so tomorrow."
I shook my head and washed up.
"I've been investigating Ciara Conway," he said.
"Okay." I tossed the dirty towel in the hamper and brushed past him. "Give me what you have, and I'll add it to what I know. I'll get the security system installed. In the meantime, if you don't mind, I'm going to put on some clothing."
"Thank you."
I glowered at him. "If it offended you, you could have just asked."
"You were distraught, and I didn't want--"
I walked into my bedroom and slapped the door shut, cutting him off.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When I came out, dressed, Gabriel picked up the conversation as if I'd never left. "It seems clear that this is related to Pamela's case."
"Really? Or just clear enough that you could tack it onto her bill?"
Ice seeped into his eyes. "I am not looking for payment, Olivia."
"Sure you are. A job means billing. Double-billing if you're lucky."
And there it was. Out on the table. His chance to defend himself.
Silence. That's what I got. Sixty seconds of stone-cold silence.
"Go," I said, turning away. "I appreciate you coming out here and--"
"I'm not leaving. You were attacked tonight, in case you've forgotten, and those locks on your door didn't keep out a killer. Or me."
I wasn't sure which was worse. At least the killer had left.
"I'll sleep on your sofa bed."
"Hell, no," I said.
"Don't be dramatic, Olivia. I've done it before."
He stood there, strumming with impatience. I glanced at the sofa, and I remembered looking out from my bedroom a week ago, seeing him there after Will Evans accused him of murdering his mother. I'd watched him sleeping, and I'd thought how young he looked, how vulnerable, and how, God help me, I trusted him. I'd trusted him.
"I don't care if you've done it before," I said. "You are never doing it again."
Something flickered across his face, too fast to leave any impression before his eyes iced over. "All right. Then you'll spend the remainder of the night at Rose's."
"I'm not--"
"Anderson is dead."
"What?"
"Michael Anderson, Chandler's bodyguard."
"I know who you mean," I said. "What happened?"
"He was in the hospital, under guard, and when they delivered his dinner, he was dead. He apparently overdosed on morphine, but somehow I don't think he's bright enough to have jiggered the dispensing system."
"Definitely not. Murder, then."
"Except, according to the guard, no one went in his room. I spent the evening at the hospital looking into it. I got home too late to notify you."
"I thought you said you were out when I called. That's why you came over."
He waved off the distinction. "The point is that, between his death and the attack on you, it's clear you shouldn't be alone tonight. Moreover, you need someone to wake you every hour in case you have a concussion. Either you go to Rose's or I stay here."
"I'll go to Rose's."
I went back into my room and grabbed my phone. When I came out, he was gathering the spilled contents of my purse and stuffing them back in.
"Ready?" Gabriel asked, straightening.
I nodded.
"It still works," he said when I checked the lock on leaving. "I picked it. It's a cheap dead bolt that only keeps out casual thieves. We'll find you something better tomorrow and arrange for that security system."
I nodded again. We headed out. In the stairwell, he said, "I could use your help investigating Ms. Conway and any links to Pamela's case."
"You think there are links? Because of the . . . postmortem mutilation?"
He glanced over sharply, and I knew he hadn't considered that. As I said it, though, he did, those busy wheels churning.
"The mutilations have nothing in common," he said. "But yes, I'll give it more thought. In the meantime, there is a con
nection of some sort. There must be. Someone is warning you, and that someone has tracked you to Cainsville. I cannot imagine that is unrelated to your parents' case. I cannot imagine you've made murderous enemies otherwise."
He emphasized murderous as if clarifying that he'd certainly believed me capable of making enemies, just not to that degree. I could have taken offense at that, but in Gabriel's world, if you aren't making the occasional enemy, you aren't trying hard enough.
"Back to the point. I could use your help," he said. "I would pay you, of course."
"I can't--"
"It would be research based. There would be no need for you to come into the office. Interaction would be minimal."
"I'm not arguing about the work, Gabriel. I'm already investigating. I'll turn over anything you can use."
We reached the ground floor.
"I'll need to contact you, then," he said. "I realize we have an agreement--"
"You're helping investigate a threat against me. I don't expect you to pass messages through a third party. Call, e-mail, text, whatever."
He nodded and held the door for me.
--
Gabriel had a key to Rose's house. He opened the door as he rang the bell in warning, then ushered me in and called, "It's Gabriel," up the stairs. He went to speak to Rose, leaving me in the front hall. I heard a whispered conversation, but it was brief and I didn't catch what he said. Then he came down and escorted me up, past a closed door that I presumed led to Rose's room, to an open door at the end. Inside was a spare bedroom.
"What did you tell her?" I asked.
"Only that you'd taken a blow to the head and shouldn't be left alone. I would like to explain more, if you're all right with that."
"I am."
"How much can I tell her?"
"Everything."
He nodded. "Thank you."
"And thank you," I said. "For tonight."
He murmured something and backed out of the room.
--
My pounding head made it impossible to fall into anything resembling actual sleep. I should have taken a painkiller, but if Gabriel had caught me, he'd have insisted on that middle-of-the-night emergency room visit. So now I was lying in bed, picking up snatches of Rose and Gabriel talking downstairs. After a while, it was as if a door had been opened, and I could hear them clearly.
"--so when are you going to tell her?" Rose was saying.