"Hey, slacker," I call as I come through the front door of the apartment the following day. Paul was still asleep when I left for the office this morning. We stayed up way too late last night talking about everything from family, friends, babies, and finally ended with our shared relationship woes. It drained me to the point of exhaustion, but I still slept like shit.
"I brought lunch." I slide the bag containing two hoagies onto the kitchen counter.
The hurt of what Alex kept from me is battling with the painful heartache of being separated from him. My life since meeting Alex has been such a roller coaster, but the best parts are always when we are together. Fighting or not, if we are around each other, a sense of calm surrounds me like a warm breeze on a summer day.
Paul emerges from his bedroom, raking his fingers through his hair. Sweat is streaming down his face and dripping onto his t-shirt. He glances at me, then averts his eyes.
"Jesus, what the hell have you been doing?" I pull the hoagies out of the bag.
"Uh, yeah, so…" Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone come out of Paul's bedroom. "Ryan's here."
Ryan has the same disheveled look as Paul.
"So, let me guess, you've made up and everything is perfect between you?" I blurt out.
My chest is heaving, and heat flushes through my body. How could Paul just forgive Ryan after how he helped Alex cover up John's survival? A burning sensation spreads through my chest. Why do they get to be so happy when I'm dying a little bit every day I am away from Alex?
A fine line exists between loving Alex so much I can't bear to be away from him and resenting him so much I can't forgive him. I'm on a tightrope between the two. At any given moment, I could fall to one side or the other. And I fear where I will end up. Losing Alex or losing a piece of myself forgiving him. Again.
"K, come on," Paul says. "Ryan and I talked, he explained his reasons for going along with Alex, and we worked it out. It's what people in loving, committed relationships do."
"Nice, Paul." His words slice through my heart. I have every right to be upset at Alex, to not want to hear his excuses, to be resentful of his need to control me. Ryan's involvement hurts just as much. How can he think so little of me as to lie about something so important?
Ryan takes a step toward me, his eyes soft, the corners drooping. "Kylie, I know you're still upset with me and you have every reason to be—but if you will just hear me out. If, after that, you're still angry, I will leave it alone, and let you reach out to me when you're ready. No judgment and no resentment from either of us." He moves his finger back and forth between himself and Paul.
I nod my head, follow Ryan into the living room, and sink into the couch. My heart is a lead balloon in my chest, weighing me down, and I just want to be unburdened by this suffering.
Ryan sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of me. "When you came out of the coma, the doctor's warned us not to upset you, that head injuries are not fully understood because so much of the brain remains enigmatic. We were concerned you may become frightened—afraid John was still able to get to you and harm you—and that would cause you to lapse back into a coma. You were so fragile, and your memories of the incident with John were clouded. Alex and I were talking to you, do you remember?"
"Yes, vaguely." Everything before, and for days after I regained consciousness, were a muddled mass of memories. Disjointed, incomprehensible, and I'm never really sure how they all fit together.
"You asked Alex about John, and there was so much fear in your eyes, so much tension in your body at just the mention of his name. I've never seen you that way, not even when we found you after John had beaten you so badly. Alex told you John was gone and would never be able to hurt you again. Your eyes brightened, and it was as if all the tension in your body instantly flowed out of you."
The memory is clear in my mind—whether it's because it was the first moment of joy I recall after waking from the coma, or because I have replayed it in my mind so many times during the past few days. "I remember hugging Alex and repeating over and over that John was dead."
Ryan nods. "Alex and I just looked at each other, stunned. I didn't know what to do, but I didn't want to be the one who took away the comfort John's death provided you. When you fell asleep, Alex and I left the room and talked about it. He was adamant we not correct your assumption right away given the doctor's warnings. I agreed with him. Since then, I've told him he needs to come clean about what really happened to John, and where he is now."
Ryan runs his fingers through his hair, takes a deep breath, and glances at Paul who nods and tips the corners of his mouth up just enough to encourage Ryan to continue. "Alex told me when the two of you visited us last week that he had let it go on so long, he didn't know how you would react to the news, but it would probably cause you to lose trust in him. I told him I wanted to be there when he told you—help you understand. But he refused, saying he didn't want me to be involved, that you didn't ever need to know I was a part of the deception. He was going to take it all on himself."
"That's not surprising." My voice is soft. I gaze out the window. Alex's need to protect extends to the people I love, especially the two men with me who are all the family I've had for so many years now.
"He's a good man, Kylie," Ryan says, taking ahold of my hands and squeezing them.
"He lied to me." That's the part twisting like a knife in my heart.
"Did he?" Ryan asks. I dart my eyes to his, disbelieving he could actually ask me that. "Think about it, Kylie. Did Alex ever actually say John was dead?"
My mind races back over the past couple of months. Not at any time did Alex state John had died, and when I said it, he wouldn't respond. Sometimes he would look away or change the subject. Often, he would gather me in his arms and hold me. I thought it was because we both shared in the contentment of not having to look over our shoulders, of the constant worry John was planning his next attack, and finally being able to be together without the threat John posed.
"No, but that's really immaterial, Ryan. It was a lie by omission. He may not have explicitly stated John was dead, but he knew the truth, and intentionally misled me. He never corrected me or told me what really happened to John."
"You're right, but if you believe nothing else, please believe we had your best interests at heart. We just couldn't risk it while you were in the hospital. It went on too long, and for my part, I am so very sorry. But you should know—Alex was going to tell you that afternoon. We had a long talk about it that morning, and he was determined not to let another day pass without you knowing the truth."
I take a large gulp of coffee from my travel mug and set it into the cup holder in my Porsche and head back to the office. Lunch had been longer—and a hell of a lot more emotional—than I had anticipated, and I'm returning later than I had wanted. Forgiving Ryan was hard, but I understand better why he went along with the deception. He and Paul have always been there for me, trying to take care of me when I needed it most, so I shouldn't be surprised Ryan did what he has always done since he met me in college.
So why is it so hard for me to forgive Alex? During the period John stalked me, it was always Alex who was there for me. He stopped John from beating me, and probably more, so many times. From the moment I first told him about John and our relationship, Alex swore he would never let anyone—especially John—lay a finger on me ever again. And yet, here I am, holding him to a higher standard than Ryan for doing what he has always done. This is not new behavior for him.
I stop at a red light, take another swig of coffee, and take a deep cleansing breath. I need to figure out my feelings for Alex, but it's not going to happen today. Focusing on this appeal has to be the primary goal if we're going to have any chance of keeping James Wells in prison where he belongs. I only get one shot at this. If James is acquitted, double jeopardy attaches, and he can't be tried for this crime ever again.
No matter what happens between Alex and me, I cannot fail him. The memory of Alex slumped on the floor, reliving his mother's death, sobbing in my arms—it nearly broke me to see him like that, and I will use every legal maneuver I can to make sure he never sees his father walking the streets as a free man.
A horn honks behind me, letting me know the light is green. I look in the rearview mirror and wave at the driver of the black car. Halfway through the intersection, I glance into the rearview mirror again. The car is practically hitched to my back bumper.
"You think you can get a little farther up my ass, buddy?" I mutter, shaking my head. I wave at him to back off, but he stays in close.
What the hell is this guy's problem? Is he really that upset he had to wait a few extra seconds on a green light? I press firmly on the accelerator and get ahead of him and can see the BMW hood emblem contrasting against the dark sports car. The driver accelerates, catches up to me, and resumes his tailgating.
My breathing hitches. It's not John's car. It's not John's car. I tap on the brakes. The car swerves into the left lane, pulls ahead of me, and nearly takes out my front end as he slides back in the lane ahead of me.
"Jesus Christ!" I slam on my brakes and hit the horn, but the car speeds away. My eyes are glued to the license plates.
JAS.
I blink. It can't be. When I look again, to verify what I'd seen, the car turns the corner and is out of sight.
"I'm losing my mind." Weighing what I think I just saw against the impossibility of it being John is causing a lightning storm in my brain and a dull throb at the base of my skull.
I pull into the small parking lot behind my law office, grab my coffee and purse, and head up the stairs. Thank God Reyes isn't back from lunch either. I have time to calm down without him scrutinizing me. It’s creepy enough the way he is always staring at me, but having him ask me what’s wrong, with his suspicious gaze making me feel guilty—for what, I have no idea—is more than I can take on at the moment.
I dump my stuff on a chair in my office, cross the open space to the kitchenette, and start a new pot of coffee. My hands are shaking, coffee grounds scatter all over the counter. I need to get a grip on my paranoia, but this is twice now I've seen John's BMW. And it's not just one that looks like his—it's his, the vanity plates are proof of that.
Am I just seeing things? Has my imagination—my crushing fear of John—finally gotten the best of me?
My breathing is out of control, I'm hyperventilating, and one step away from a full-blown panic attack. I grab the edge of the counter, close my eyes, and concentrate on slow inhales and exhales.
Footsteps fall on the stairs, and I turn as Reyes hits the top step. He's breathing heavily, his chest heaving almost as heavily as mine. Sweat covers his face, his short hair wet, his shirt sticking to him, the outline of his highly defined pectoral muscles visible through the thin material.
"Were you running?" I ask.
His head swivels around until his eyes meet mine.
"Uh…yeah…" He looks away, and I can’t help but feel I’ve caught him doing something.
I grab the coffee pot before it's done brewing, fill my coffee mug, and stroll into my office. "Was someone chasing you?" I'm only half joking as I stop behind my desk and peer at him standing in the doorway of my office.
"Well, it was more of a jog, really—I lost track of time at lunch and wanted to get back to the office." His eyes run over my body, finally landing on my face. "You all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost." He leans against the doorframe to my office, his massive, muscular arms across his chest, and his eyebrows raised.
"I wish it had been a ghost," I mutter. I glance at him, and his eyes narrow and lock onto mine. "It's nothing," I wave dismissively, "just some jerk who was driving like an asshole on the way over here. Nearly clipped the front of my car." Hopefully, he'll take the hint and let this drop.
"Drivers around here suck. I hated being on patrol when I first became a cop. It's a miracle I was never in an accident."
I smile, nod, and change the subject. I really don't want to talk about this anymore and say something to the detective which will only generate more questions I don't have answers for. "I thought we'd go through the crime scene photos and start a timeline on the whiteboard this afternoon."
"Okay, I'll find the boxes we need."
"Sounds good. I just have to make a quick phone call and I'll be right in." As soon as he's in the conference room, I pick up the receiver and dial the number to Cedar Grove Hospital. The receptionist answers after the second ring.
"Yes, hello, I was wondering if there is any way I can speak to John Sysco?" I ask.
"And you are?"
Crap! I hadn't thought this far ahead. I don't want to give my name for a variety of reasons, but I have no idea what name to give.
"Um, I'm a cousin of his…Caroline." I have no idea if he has a cousin named Caroline—or if he even has a cousin, but it's the first thing that pops in my head.
After a few minutes of being on hold, the line is picked up. "Hello?"
I'd know his voice anywhere. It still gives me an icy shiver down my spine.
"Hello? Anyone there?" he asks.
I move the phone away from my ear but hear a low, evil whisper that sucks all the air out of my lungs. "I know it's you, Kylie. I know you're scared—wondering if the things you're seeing are real. Are you questioning your sanity yet?"
I slam the receiver down. My hands are trembling. A cold wave rushes over me leaving goosebumps in its wake.
What did he mean? Was that him driving the car?
No, there's no way he could get all the way back to the hospital in that amount of time. God, I hate he can frighten me to the very depths of my soul with just the sound of his voice. But there's something more going on here. Either I'm losing my mind, or John has somehow resumed stalking me.
But how?
I shake my head at my own irrational thoughts and head into the conference room. Distraction. That's what I need right now. Work has always been a reprieve from John in the past, even when we were dating. No reason it can't be again.
Reyes is busy separating the photos into piles. I grab a couple and drop down into one of the chairs.
"Let's see what we have here…" The first picture shows a close up of an overturned end table and a few broken glass objects scattered close by. Little yellow tents with numbers mark the evidence. "I wish I could get a sense of how the room was laid out—you know, basic dimensions, furniture placement?" I flip through a few more pictures showing other items broken or generally out of place. "Is there a diagram…or sketch of this room? Or the house?"
"I haven't seen anything yet, but that wouldn't be in this stuff." Reyes drops a few more photos in front of me. "I can take a look at the evidence log and see if either the prosecution or defense had one made for the trial."
I glance up from the photos and meet his gaze. His eyes are so intense, a hunger lurks in the periphery, edged with melancholy. We've been working closely for the past few days, but I know virtually nothing about him. I have no idea if he's married, single, divorced. If he has kids.
The atmosphere when he's around me—when it's just us—shifts to one of need and desire, and I can't help but wonder if Paul is right, and Reyes is interested in more than just a professional relationship.
It’s awkward, and the thought of being in a relationship with any man other than Alex makes my stomach flip and sour. Alex has ruined me for any other man. If I’m not with him, I can’t imagine ever wanting to be with another.
Damn him and his lies and control freakiness!
I go through the pictures he added to my pile. One is a close-up of Ellen Wells. A stream of blood runs from the corner of her mouth, across her cheek, and drips into a pool on the floor. There are fresh bruises on her cheek and around her eye, and her lip is swollen and split open.
It's the marks on the neck which interest me the most. Four long, wide bruises line the right side of her neck, with one large bruise on the left side. Damn, this complicates things.
"Do you have a copy of the death certificate handy?" I ask Reyes.
He shifts through a file at the other end of the long table. "Yep, right here." He waves it in the air.
"What does it say the cause of death is?"
"Intracranial hemorrhage and brain herniation due to traumatic brain injury."
"I need to see the coroner's report and the transcript of his testimony." There is something in this photo I'm missing, something which will exculpate Alex in his mother's death. "What's the name of the coroner?"
"Xavier Schiffer."
"No, not the current guy. The one from the original trial…he's retired now." I flip through the files in front of me, unsure what is actually in them.
"Logan? Lewis, maybe?" Reyes offers.
"It should be on the death certificate," I said.
After a few seconds, Reyes says, "Theodore Loftus."
"We need to find him. I want him to take a look at these photos and explain the bruises on her neck, and why the cause of death wasn't strangulation. See if we can get him to come here."
Reyes stares at me and releases a long, heavy sigh. "Anything else?"
A flush floods my face, and I offer apologetic smile. "You're not my legal secretary. You're a highly experienced detective, and I have no right expecting you to fetch things for me. I apologize, I guess I'm used to having Lisa around when I work up a case. That's not an excuse, and I'm sure you have your own areas to investigate."
He chuckles, rubs the back of his neck and twists at the hips to stretch his back. "It's no problem. Nothing I've been looking into is leading anywhere. Besides, I'm kind of getting a kick out of watching you. I just wish I could be inside your head and see what's going on in there."
Placing the pictures in some coherent order, I shake my head. "It's total chaos and confusion. I wouldn't recommend any sort of deep dive."
"It's a beautiful mind."
I still, and slowly lift my eyes.
"You know, the guy in that movie. Total genius, bat-shit crazy."
I breathe a sigh of relief, chastising myself for assuming he meant anything else. "Hmmm, I'm going to pretend there's a compliment in there and just say thanks."
He saunters around the table toward me, his eyes trained on mine, and stops right in front of me. "You're welcome."
His voice is deep, and his eyes have darkened. I suck in a breath, not sure what's coming next. He hands me a notebook and a file. "Here's the coroner's report and transcript you requested."
My chest is heaving, although I haven't the faintest idea why. I'm not attracted to Reyes, even though a woman would have to be near dead not to appreciate the sculptured body, and—damn—can he fill out a pair of jeans with that perfect ass. Maybe it's just the possibility he will try to kiss me, or want to take it farther, which has me apprehensive.
I have no idea, but it's becoming clear to me the men in my life are driving me a little "bat shit crazy" lately. I wonder how long until I am full-blown insane and committed to Cedar Grove?
By late afternoon, I gather up some files to go over at home and head out the door. When I get into the apartment, all I can think of is getting a glass of wine and taking a long, scalding hot bath. Paul and Ryan returned to New York after lunch, so I'm on my own.
Paul gave me his patented bear hug before he left, and whispered in my ear, "Don't string Alex along for too long, K. You deserve to be happy, and you've been at your happiest since being with him. It may be time to suck it up and let him off the hook."
My relationship with Alex has been a series of stops and starts, each stop a blindside which slams me up against a wall, certain our relationship is beyond repair. I dwell in darkness, the constant pain ravages my heart, and I wallow in self-pity until the slightest bit of light slips through the cracks. The light is always Alex. It will always be Alex. No matter how mad I am, how much I convince myself it will never work, that we are over, I know I can't live without him.
Accepting his need to control my life under the guise of protecting me is the stumbling block consistently tripping me up. The overwhelming need to keep me safe clouds his judgment and drives me away.
I swing into an empty spot in the parking garage under my apartment building, grab my night's reading material, and head to the elevator. My heels click against the cement, echoing through the cavernous space. A second, heavier set of footsteps offset mine. I glance around the garage, empty—quiet—utterly eerie. I pick up my pace, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes glued to the elevator. My head is telling me I'm being paranoid again, until I hear the other footsteps—in perfect time with my accelerated pace.
My hand is shaking, dancing around the elevator call button. I manage to push it in, the light a welcome beacon through the dizzying fear swirling around in my head, followed by the sweet sound of the ding as the elevator doors open. I dart inside, push the door close button, and chance a glimpse into the garage.
No one is there. At least, no one I can see.
The elevator wall is cool against my back, I close my eyes, and rest my head against it. My breathing slows, almost normal again, and I laugh. One step away from the straight jacket fitting.
The thumping in my head usually indicates a lack of caffeine, but I think I've had about three pots of coffee today. Probably just nervous tension coursing through me. My stress level continues to rise incrementally, a roller coaster on its ascent to the clouds, the apprehension growing with every tick up the long track.
Unlocking the apartment, I practically fall through the door. Dumping all the files, my briefcase, and purse on the table, I head to the wine rack and pull out a bottle of Chilean Carménère. Filling the glass nearly to the rim, I take a large sip, and savor the chocolatey flavor with notes of plum. Allowing the wine to sit on my tongue, I close my eyes, and tip my head back before letting it slide down my throat. It's as close to an orgasm as I will get tonight—or any night in the near future—and I silently thank Alex for teaching me the subtleties of wine.
Opening my eyes, I lift the glass to my lips, when my eyes fall on a long box laying on the counter. "Ryan and Paul must have left flowers for me," I mutter, grab the small white envelope taped to the top of the carton, and remove the card.
Soon you will suffer the same fate…
I turn the card over in my hand, my mind grappling with the meaning of the cryptic message. No signature. I pull the box closer to me, lift the lid, and discard the tissue paper. A thick black ribbon is tied around a bunch of long-stemmed roses—all of them dead.
I stumble backwards. My hands tremble and the card floats effortlessly to my feet. Visions of the decapitated cat John sent me a few months ago flood my mind, and I'm right back in the same tailspin. The only way I kept centered then was having Alex. He allowed me to fall apart, while simultaneously giving me strength.
I need him now—but things are too complicated. Calling him will muddy the waters. He'll expect forgiveness, and reconciliation—two things I'm unable to hand over just yet.
I snatch my purse from the table, roll through the contacts, and press the call button.
It rings twice. "Reyes."
"Hi, it's Kylie." I utterly fail at masking the tremors in my voice. "I have a problem and I'm hoping you can come to my apartment and help me figure out what to do."
"Yeah, sure. Is everything all right?" His voice is soft but laced with concern.
"I don't know." Tears break the lower lid barrier and roll down my cheeks. I swipe them away and clear my throat.
"What's your address?" I give it to him, and he says, "I'll be right over," and ends the call.
I grasp the back of the couch and limp around to the front before my knees buckle and I fall onto it. Too many questions swirl around in my head demanding answers I don't have and forcing me to consider the irrational as reasonable. John is behind this—he broke into my apartment, left the flowers, along with the promise.
My death at his hands.
Loud knocks rattle the door. Beads of sweat cover my face. John is here to make good on his threats. Fear wracks my body, and I can’t control the shakes taking over.
"Kylie, it's Reyes. Open the door."
My movements are stiff, my legs muscles tight as I make my way to the door. Swiping a hand across my forehead to get rid of the sweat, I yank the door open.
Deep lines wrinkle Reyes’s forehead, his eyes squint, a grimace across his face. He steps inside, closes the door, and turns the deadbolt.
He's locking me in. Forcing me to remain here against my will. He doesn't want to help me—he wants to destroy me.
A knot forms in my stomach, a rush of adrenaline courses through my body, and I consider whether or not I can flip the lock and get the door open before he can stop me.
My head is spinning, visions and thoughts are a jumbled mess, and I can't stop the loud warning bells clanging in my head. There's no one I can trust.
"Jesus, Kylie, what the hell is going on?" Reyes pulls my hands away from my ears. I peer at him, expecting to see the same evil grin on John's face when he knows he has scared the shit out of me.
But Reyes’s expression is soft, a small smile brightens his eyes, which keeps steady contact with mine. His fingertips brush away a strand of hair from my face and he lets his hand linger and caress my cheek.
I take a deep breath and hold it. What is wrong with me? How could I possibly think Reyes was here to harm me? I called him to come over and help me.
I sigh, and my shoulders slump under the heaviness weighing them down. I point to the box on the counter.
Reyes approaches it, tentatively pulls back the tissue paper, and peers inside. I scoop up the card from the floor, and hand it to him as he turns toward me.
"They were here when I got home," I say. "I don't know who left them or how they got into my apartment."
Reyes takes the card from me, his eyes lift to meet mine, his eyebrows scrunch together.
I shift back and forth on my feet. "They’re from John."
Reyes' mouth opens, but he shuts it without saying whatever he inevitably wants to convey. I can only imagine it starts with, "you're crazy" and ends with, "you need help."
He blows out his cheeks, shakes his head, and releases a long breath. "That's impossible."
"It's him—I know it's him. This is what he does. You were there when he sent me the dead cat. And he left a note, threatening to kill me. And now he's done it again. Tell me you see that?"
"Yes, it's similar, but John is locked up. Do you seriously believe he escaped and broke in here, just to leave you a dozen dead roses?" His hands run up and down my upper arms. He cocks his head to the side and offers a small smile. "Think about it, Kylie. It just doesn't make sense that it was John."
I wrap my arms tighter across my chest. My jaw is clenched tightly. God, could he be anymore condescending? He has no idea what it’s like to live in constant fear John will appear, trap me—rape and murder me.
He doesn't have to endure the nightmares which force me to relive the abuse, torture, and humiliation by a man who enjoyed making me beg for my life, who sneered and laughed when I screamed for help—or mercy. The man who tossed me to the floor, smeared his come all over my bloody, broken body, and then left me there, nothing more than trash he kicked to the corner.
"Who else could it have been?" I ask.
Reyes looks down at his feet and shakes his head before he gazes at me, his eyes sympathetic. "I don't know, but there has to be another answer."
I exhale and look away. I can't stand the pity I see in his eyes. The total disbelief in his demeanor.
"Hey, Kylie," he reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "I'll take everything with me, and have the lab check it for fingerprints, or anything which might point to whoever did this. I'll make some calls and see if I can find out where the flowers came from, and who paid for them. Okay?"
I'm not really comfortable with the intimacy of his actions tonight. We barely know each other, our relationship is purely professional, yet he's acting as if we have a burgeoning romance.
Except you called him, asked for his help, invited him to your apartment.
I gently extricate my hand from his. What the hell was I thinking?
My shoulders sag. Jesus, my life feels as if it’s unraveling before my eyes and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it. "Okay. Thank you."
"No problem." He walks into the kitchen and glances around. "Trash bags?"
"Under the sink."
Carefully, he places the card and envelope on top of the roses, replaces the lid on the box, and slides it into the trash bag, tying it shut. I hold the door open as he leaves. In the hallway, he turns to me. "Lock the door. I'll see you in the morning."
I smile and nod as he steps onto the elevator and the doors close. I grab my wine from the counter on my way to the bedroom. Changing into lounge pants and a tank top, I grab the TV remote, and curl up under the covers.
I regret calling Reyes instead of Alex. All I want right now is to feel Alex's strong arms around me, the way he covers my face with soft kisses, and whispers he will protect me and keep me safe. He comforts me like a warm blanket on a cold night.
Reyes tried to console me, but I don't know him. And I don't want him. Alex is my rock, the light which guides me to shore when my life is tossed around like a boat on an angry sea.
I need him so badly. But he betrayed my trust.
And I'm left to face this threat on my own.