I know I’d said I was going home, but I couldn’t go there without
first stopping by Aislynn and Kylie’s house to tell them what I’d
found out, not just about Terry, but about Damian, too. He and
Kylie had been married a while; I felt I owed her the knowledge
that her ex-husband had had nothing to do with what had happened to
her. And I definitely wanted them to know that Terry might be a
whole lot more dangerous than we’d imagined, and to not open the
door for her if she came knocking.
By now, rush hour had started, and I made my slow way across the bridge, bumper to bumper with a lot of other cars, three lanes deep all the way across. At the light on the other side, the right lane disappeared, as the cars there headed for the interstate. Halfway up the next block, there was an entrance for Ellington Parkway on the right, and a steady stream of cars drove that way. By the time I reached the stop light on Main Street and Fifth, traffic was a lot more manageable.
I drove another few blocks, up to the corner of Tenth, and took a right at Brew-ha-ha, the coffee shop, and from there disappeared into the residential districts. A couple of minutes later I was parked outside Aislynn and Kylie’s house.
It took a minute or two for Aislynn to come to the door. She peered out before she unlocked the door. I didn’t mind; I was glad she was careful.
“It’s just me,” I told her through the glass. “Can I come in for a few minutes? I have some news.”
She opened the door and let me in, but not without peering up and down the street before she shut and locked the door behind us. “Kylie’s resting.” She kept her voice low. “I’ve been cleaning up.”
I glanced into the office. Yes, she had. Most of the papers were up off the floor and in piles on the desk. Somehow, I didn’t think that Kylie would be all that appreciative of the ‘help.’ Not unless Aislynn had actually taken the time to sort and organize the paperwork, instead of just scooping it up into piles.
None of my business, though. “I just came from the police station,” I said. “They pulled Terry in for questioning and asked me to sit in, to see if she told the same story about yesterday that you told me.”
Aislynn blinked. “They arrested Terry?”
I shook my head. “They let her go after they spoke to her. I wanted to let you know, so you could be careful.”
“Of Terry?” Aislynn said incredulously. Not surprising, since she’d felt safe enough with the other woman to spend two nights and a day on Terry’s futon.
“She has a thing for you. She could have known where you keep your hide-a-key. And she’s who I saw sneaking around the yard on Friday afternoon. When I was standing in the backyard, she was probably upstairs pawing through your drawers.”
Aislynn’s face twisted. “That’s sick.”
Yes, it was. “And that’s why you don’t want anything to do with her.”
“So did she write the letters after all? To get me to leave Kylie, or something? Or just so I’d be scared and spend the night with her? Did she hit Kylie, too?”
“I don’t think she did,” I said, “and I don’t think the police think so, either. She was working at Sara Beth’s Friday night. She couldn’t have been here.”
“So why do I have to be careful? She didn’t hurt me this weekend. And if she didn’t hurt Kylie...”
“The police think she may have killed Virgil Wright,” I said.
Aislynn stared at me. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Then she closed it again. And tried one more time. “Why? Did she know him?”
I shook my head. “But she knew Stacy. Virgil’s ex. They live in the same apartment complex. And while Stacy was working Wednesday night, Terry wasn’t.”
While Stacy had been free Friday night, when Terry was at work. Maybe the two of them had engaged in a game of you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll scratch-yours?
Maybe Terry had whined to her good buddy Stacy about this girl who wouldn’t pay her any attention, and Stacy had realized that Aislynn was the same girl who was now living in the house he’d shared with Virgil. Maybe he had suggested the anonymous letter campaign as a means of scaring Aislynn into leaving Kylie, but also as a way to muddy the waters once he was ready to kill Virgil. He had told Terry where to find the spare key to the house—inside the hide-a-key thermometer on the back porch—so Terry could come and go in Aislynn’s house as she pleased.
And in exchange for all this, Stacy had requested—or required—Terry’s help in getting rid of his former lover, so he could cash in on the insurance policy he had on Virgil’s life. He might have sweetened the pot by telling her he’d give her some of the money after he got his million.
And who knew, he might be planning to use the rest of the money to buy back the house Aislynn and Kylie lived in. If the letters caused Aislynn and Kylie to break up, Terry would be standing ready to offer Aislynn the futon and the second bedroom for as long as Aislynn needed it, and Stacy would be ready to swoop in and take the house off Kylie’s hands.
It all made sense. In a weird, twisted, obsessive sort of way that was extremely disturbing.
And I wasn’t even sure whether I was more freaked out by Stacy thinking of it, or Stacy using Terry to execute it—and Virgil—or by Terry going along with the twisty plan. I mean, what kind of person agrees to something like this? And for love—or whatever you’d call what Terry felt for Aislynn.
“Please be careful,” I told her. Someone who’d kill for her, was likely to do pretty much anything else, as well. Including killing again.
She nodded. “I won’t open the door for anyone. I promise.”
“Take the extra key out of the thermometer so no one can come in. She knows it’s there.”
“Already done,” Aislynn said.
“A couple of the local cops are supposed to drive by from time to time and make sure everything is all right. Although maybe it would be better if you put Kylie in the car and went somewhere else. In fact, now would be a great time to make that visit to your parents.” Only an hour’s drive, but safely away from Nashville.
Aislynn hesitated. “My folks really aren’t that crazy about Kyle...”
“My mother hated my boyfriend,” I said. “”But last month, he got himself hurt. And it changed everything. Now my mother dotes on him.”
There had been a little bit more to it than that, of course, but since there was no way Aislynn or Kylie could possibly match Rafe’s encounter with the serial killer from his past, there was no sense in even mentioning it. I added, “I bet, if you take Kylie there and explain that she got hurt because some nut job is after you, your mother will do the same thing.”
Aislynn looked unconvinced.
“I’m sure they just want you to be happy,” I said. “And once they get to know Kylie, they’ll see that she loves you, and that she makes you happy. You just have to give them a chance. If my mother could change, there’s hope for anyone’s mother.”
“I don’t know...”
“You’ll be safer if you leave. And so will Kylie. She can’t go back to work for a day or two anyway. And I’m sure you don’t want to go back to Sara Beth’s while Terry is there. Do you?”
She hesitated.
“And this way, you won’t get any surprise visits from Lauren, to check on the invalid.”
That did it.
“I’ll just throw some things in a bag,” Aislynn said, already making for the stairs, “and then we’ll be gone.”
She took the steps two at a time, with those long, skinny legs. I turned my attention to the desk.
As I had expected, she had just haphazardly thrown things together in piles. Kylie would have a hell—heck—of a time trying to straighten it out when she recovered enough for the task.
The piece of paper on top of one of the piles was a copy of Kylie’s dissolution of marriage from Damian Mitchell. So that was one mystery solved: namely how the fake Damian who had come to the hospital had known Kylie’s ex-husband’s name. He must have seen it while he was here on Friday night.
And that proved pretty conclusively—if you asked me—that the guy at the hospital and the burglar were one and the same.
It also proved that Terry hadn’t been the burglar, since surely Dr. Ramsey was able to tell that she was female, and not Kylie’s ex-husband.
Upstairs, I heard drawers and closet doors opening and shutting. Aislynn packing bags, I guess. And I heard soft voices, probably Aislynn explaining to Kylie what was going on.
I headed down the hallway to the backdoor, to make sure it was locked and that the key was, indeed, not in the thermometer. That done, I went back to the front of the house, in time to see Aislynn steadying Kylie down the stairs to the first floor, an overnight bag in her other hand.
Kylie looked marginally better, so resting must have been good for her. She still looked pale and wan, though, and was moving slowly. I took a step forward to grab her other arm when she came off the staircase. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Her voice was weak, and she cleared her throat. “It’s nice to be back home.”
“And now we’re taking you away again.” I grimaced. “I really do think you’ll be safer somewhere else, though. Just for a day or two. If we’re right, this woman has already committed one murder. She might find it easier to commit another.”
Yet another reason to believe it hadn’t been Terry in the house Friday night. After bashing Virgil’s head in on Wednesday, I’m not sure she could have resisted doing the same to Kylie when she had the chance.
“It’s all right,” Kylie said. “All I need is a bed and I’m good. It doesn’t matter where it is.” She smiled. That, too, was weak. “I just want to survive this.”
“Let’s get you in the car,” I said, turning toward the door. “I checked the back door. It’s locked.”
We stopped on the porch so Aislynn could lock the front door too, and then I got them both settled in Kylie’s Volvo. I stood on the sidewalk and waved until they’d driven away, and then I got into my own car and went home, feeling a lot better about the fact that they were out of harm’s way.
The house was empty when I got there. So was the yard. Rafe was not
outside mowing the grass today. I let myself in and set about
preparing dinner.
The phone rang twenty minutes later, just as I was getting ready to put the food on the table. (Chicken fajitas with black beans, green peppers, and onions, in case you were wondering. I was planning to take extra Tums again afterward.)
“Sorry, darlin’,” my husband told me, “I’m gonna be late.”
I looked at the two plates, the two glasses, the heated tortillas, and the pan full of sautéed vegetables and chicken, and sighed. “How late?”
I could imagine him shaking his head. “Dunno, darlin’. This thing with Jamal’s going down tonight. I gotta be there to make sure he don’t get himself in too much trouble.”
Of course he did. I turned off the heat under the fajita mixture. “That’s too bad. I just finished making black bean fajitas.”
“Well, damn,” Rafe said, since he’s quite fond of my black bean fajitas, and since he also knows that there’s a lot of chopping involved. “Sorry, darlin’.”
“It’s all right. You can’t help it. And Jamal’s more important than coming home for dinner.”
For the record, I did mean that. It wasn’t like this happened all the time. Or like I felt he put too many other things above me. He loved me. I knew that. But he had an important job where lives sometimes hung in the balance—sometimes the life in the balance was his—and when it came down to a question between being home for dinner or making sure Jamal was safe, the answer really was a no-brainer.
“I’ll just eat on my own,” I said, “and put the leftovers in the fridge for later. You can heat it up in the microwave when you get home.”
“I don’t imagine I’ll be home until pretty late, darlin’. Too late to heat anything up.”
“That’s too bad.”
I could hear the smile in his voice. “I could wake you.”
“I don’t mind if you do. Although you might be too tired.”
“I ain’t never too tired for that,” Rafe said. There were voices behind him, and he was silent for a moment, I guess to hear what they were saying. Then he asked, “So how’re you gonna spend the rest of the night?”
“I figure I’ll probably eat while the food is warm. I can’t skip meals these days. The baby gets cranky.”
“I don’t blame him,” Rafe told me. “I get cranky, too. I just can’t do nothing about it right now.”
“Maybe you can stop for a burger or something on the way.”
He chuckled. “Sure. I’ll just keep the burger in one hand and the gun in the other.”
“Gun?”
His voice was easy. “Just business as usual, darlin’. Don’t worry.”
Sure. I wanted to pursue it, but figured I’d probably be happier not knowing the details. “Just make sure you come home in one piece.”
He smiled. I could hear it in his voice. “Always.”
“And try to keep Jamal in one piece, too.”
“That’s the plan.”
Well, if anyone could do it, he could. “I’ll probably just crawl into bed,” I said, “and watch a movie or read a book or something while I wait for you to get here.”
Nice and normal. Something that had been sadly lacking in his life so far.
“Don’t wait up,” he told me. “I have a feeling it’s gonna be late. Just take care of yourself and the baby. I’ll take care of this.”
“I know you will. Stay safe. I love you.”
“Love you too, darlin’.” He hung up. I did the same, and settled in with my lonely fajitas and a romance novel.
In my former life, before Rafe, I used to be a fan of steamy historical romance. My favorite author was Barbara Botticelli, who wrote such masterpieces as Tartan Tryst, Apache Amour, and Stand and Deliver. All of her heroines were innocent, blond, and well-bred, while all her heroes were tall, dark, and dangerous, with more than a passing resemblance to Rafe. I stopped reading the books when I realized that in real life, Barbara was none other than Elspeth Caulfield from Damascus, Tennessee, who’d had a one-night-stand with Rafe in high school and never gotten over him. The fact that she’d imagined him naked every time the hero unbuttoned his buff britches, turned me off.
And since I now had Rafe in my bed every night, and was living my very own romance with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, I had switched to reading mysteries. Cozy mysteries, the kind with cats and gimmicks and very little blood.
I was halfway through a holiday mystery—the Fourth of July, not Christmas—and after dinner, I crawled into bed with it. There was nothing else to do, I was tired, and anyway, bed was where Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous would want to find me when he got home.
It took a couple of hours to finish the book, and by then my eyelids were drooping. It was almost ten, and Rafe wasn’t home yet. He probably wouldn’t be here for a few hours, judging from what he’d said on the phone. I turned out the light and crawled under the covers, while I tried not to worry about what might be going on, and the danger he might be putting himself in.
It had been a while since I’d worried like this. Except for the twenty-four hours last month when he’d gotten himself kidnapped and tortured, of course, and we didn’t know where he was or what had happened to him. But that hadn’t really been an occupational hazard, or only indirectly. A blast from the past that none of us could have predicted. This was putting his life and safety on the line in the line of duty, and he hadn’t had to do that for a while. He’d gotten out of undercover work last December, and had taken what amounted to a desk job in February. At that point, I’d stopped worrying so much, since he wouldn’t put himself in danger all the time.
And now here he was, putting himself in danger again. Strapping on a gun and walking into a war between rival gangs to protect his protégé.
It took me a while to fall asleep, and when I did, I was plagued by bad dreams. It could have been the beans and onions, although it was more likely to be worry. And as usual, my nightmares were a strange mixture of things that didn’t necessarily belong together. Rafe was going to the mailbox outside our house at 101 Potsdam to see if we’d gotten any more poison pen letters, but he was carrying a gun and looking left and right for gang members while he did it—like we were under siege or something—and when he got there, a car came rolling down the street with the subwoofer blasting, and as it came closer, the tinted windows rolled down, and I knew it was the poison pen... except the points of semi-automatic weapons stuck out of the windows, and they started spitting bullets, and Rafe returned fire as he zigzagged through the yard toward the front door, and I called to him to hurry, but then he stumbled and fell... and I woke up with the sheets twisted around my legs so I couldn’t move, and a scream caught in my throat.
It took at least a minute before my heart settled into a normal rhythm and I could unwind myself from the sheet and kick my feet free.
The lighted numbers on the digital clock said 12:43. I was still alone in bed. I didn’t even have to look to know that. Rafe is a light sleeper, and if I’d had a nightmare, he would have woken up before I did, and would have been soothing me now. Or distracting me; whichever he thought would do the trick. Since he’s pretty much always happy to get laid, he might have opted for distraction.
But since nothing like that was going on, I was definitely alone. His side of the bed was cold and untouched, the comforter still smooth.
I settled back against the pillows and concentrated on breathing. In and out, slowly and carefully. Everything was all right. Rafe was safe. Nobody had gunned him down in the front yard. I would have heard the shots.
And I knew it, logically, but even so, I pushed the comforter back and padded over to the window. The old floorboards were cold against the soles of my feet, and the air conditioning vent sent a blast of icy air at my ankles as I moved past.
The bedroom window overlooks the front yard: the circular driveway, a lot of old oak and hackberry trees, and beyond the yard, Potsdam Street. At this time of night, there was very little to see. Most of the neighboring houses were dark, with the occasional porch light above or beside a front door, and here or there the blue flicker of a TV where someone had gotten caught up in a late movie. Straight below me, I could see the roof of my Volvo, parked in the driveway, and I could also see that Rafe’s Harley wasn’t parked there with it. Whatever he’d been doing with Jamal, he was still doing it.
Down the street, there was a flash of light. As the vehicle came closer, I saw a pair of matching headlights approaching slowly. Not Rafe coming home, then.
I squinted, but couldn’t make out the car itself. Maybe it was Spicer and Truman, driving by to make sure everything was all right. Or just a neighbor, coming home from a late night on the town. Malcolm, the nineteen-year-old who lived two houses up, worked at the gas station on the corner of Dickerson Road and Dresden. His shift ended at eleven, but maybe he’d put in an extra hour and a half, or something.
But no. The car passed Malcolm’s place and kept going until the red taillights winked out up the street.
I stayed where I was. My feet were cold and I was flagging, but the baby was wide awake, doing what felt like cartwheels inside my belly. Maybe it was excited that I was up and about, since that was rather unusual for this time of night.
Practice for after it was born, when I would have to get up for nightly feedings.
I was about to go back to bed when something moved outside. And instead of heading back to curl my cold toes into the covers, I leaned closer to the window and squinted.
A dark shadow moved down the street from the direction of Malcolm’s house.
Now, that’s not anything unusual. People do walk around the neighborhood sometimes, coming and going. I wouldn’t choose to do it, but that doesn’t mean other people don’t, either because they want to, or they have to. People go to or get off work at any hour of the day or night these days. Cars run out of gas and people have to walk home. We have a few homeless in the area, who get rousted from one place and have to move to another in the middle of the night, for one reason or another. And we live in a fairly high crime area, so we have our share of drug dealers, hookers, and other undesirables wandering our streets. Including some of the gang members Rafe was hunting tonight. They tend to avoid the area right around our house, though, since word has gotten out that Rafe works for the TBI. The law-abiding neighbors love him, since crime has gone down since he moved in, while the not-so-law-abiding take the long way around.
This person did not take the long way around. He—or she; it was impossible to tell in the dark—hesitated at the bottom of the driveway. I expected him (or her) to flit across, and continue down the sidewalk, but instead, he—she—ducked inside the yard and vanished among the shadows of the trees.
A second later, another shadow followed.
Two of them. In our yard, on their way toward the house.
And I was alone, without Rafe—or his gun—to protect me.