As Lucien paced the length of the small kitchen yet again, he cursed himself for not spitting out the truth when he’d had a moment to earlier. It should’ve been the first thing he’d said, regardless as how his and Raven’s reunion had gone.
Should’ve taken one look into her eyes and announced it. Be a hell of a lot better than this crap.
She hadn’t had much to say as he’d done a fast perimeter check. She’d been quiet during his statement retrieval from Juanita Rickson, too. Even when he’d quickly explained that it was best to write it down while it was still fresh in the older woman’s mind, all Raven had done was nod. She was silent now, too, except for the soothing things she murmured to Juanita.
So she’s not really silent at all, he thought. She’s just giving you the silent treatment.
Neither of them had brought up the message scrawled on the wall, and what it likely meant. What he didn’t want it to mean, but what would undoubtedly turn out to be the truth. Lucien’s mind wavered between wanting to think about it, and not wanting to acknowledge it at all.
Focus on getting through these moments, he told himself. Deal with the rest—the message included—later.
Except that if he could’ve done anything he wanted to, he would’ve chosen to pull Raven outside to confess the truth right that second. He would’ve taken her away and hidden her from sight. Of course, even if there’d been a chance that she’d leave Juanita’s side, Lucien’s police training wouldn’t have allowed him to leave the caretaker’s wife unattended. Not only was she visibly—and understandably—on edge, but there was also no way to know if the culprit—yes, he was sticking with that generic term until he had proof positive that it was Georges Hanes—was still lurking nearby.
“Lucien.”
Raven’s voice almost made him jump. He paused in his pacing and turned his attention her way, glad that she was addressing him directly.
“Yes?” he said.
She nodded pointedly at the empty chair at the table. “Sit down. Have some tea.”
He eyed the mug that already sat in front of Juanita, then started to open his mouth to remind Raven that he was a coffee man. Which she knew. Then he realized her intention was to get him to cease his pacing.
He cursed himself again, this time for his lack of professionalism. He was generally even tempered. He’d even heard himself called implacable on more than one occasion.
But this is different.
Georges Hanes and Raven herself made it different.
The first few weeks they’d spent together had been hell. What Hanes had done to her...what he’d left her with...without...it had nearly broken her. It was Lucien who dragged her out of it. He listened to her cry in her sleep. Comforted her when she was inconsolable. Held her. Cooked her meals, for God’s sake. Plus, a hundred other things that he’d never—as a cop or as man—thought he’d be doing for someone. The idea of seeing her go through it all again filled him with teeth-gnashing anger. She’d made it once, but a second? He didn’t see it happening.
“Lucien.” Raven’s tone was just barely shy of sharp this time.
He realized he’d started pacing again, and when he looked toward the two women, he saw that Juanita’s face had a hint of concern on it, and it was definitely for him. It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so wrong. Muttering an apology, he sank down into the empty chair. He told himself to relax, at least a little, and dragged the mug of tea closer. If nothing else, the heat provided a focal point. He flexed his fingers on the ceramic.
“Shouldn’t be too much longer until the backup arrives,” he said a little lamely.
Unexpectedly, Raven’s hand came up to rest on his for a moment. The touch—gentle but deliberate—was soothing, and a bit of his tension eased. Ironic, considering that he was so damn worried about her.
He wondered if she had any idea about the feelings he’d buried. They seemed very, very close to the surface now. Maybe they were even on his face. God, he hoped not.
Thankfully, he was saved from dwelling on it any more. At least for the moment. Sirens came to life in the distance, and got rapidly closer. From there, things moved quickly. The small house came to life in the busy, crime-solving way that Lucien was accustomed to.
As the work got underway, he made sure not to insinuate himself into his colleagues’ investigation. Though he stayed close—available to assist with their questions about what he’d seen—he was careful to play the role of witness rather than cop. He pretended not to tense as they paid extra care in photographing the crimson letters, and blocked out their whispered suppositions about the words. The only bit of interference he ran was when he pulled his boss aside to ask that Raven not be told about Georges Hanes. He still wanted to be the one to do it. Sergeant Gray agreed, so Lucien simply rode through as an observer, watching the team work through the scene.
An on-duty detective came in and took over where he’d left off, questioning Juanita more thoroughly than he’d done, using his notes as reference.
A couple of uniformed officers and a scent-tracking dog explored the interior and the exterior. Unsurprisingly, they found nothing and everything at the same time. The whole area was marked with Jim Rickson’s scent. Yet there was no specific path leading anywhere.
An ambulance arrived on scene with the others, and the paramedics examined the caretaker’s wife. She had a meltdown while they were taking her blood pressure, and they administered a sedative. The medical professionals decided it would be in her best interest to speak to someone at the hospital. They took her away, lights on, sirens off.
Two forensics officials got there shortly after that, and they began their process. Photographing. Sampling. Note taking. They were methodical in their technical, all-important, scientific realm.
Through it all, Lucien kept up his calm front. But all he really wanted to do was stick by Raven’s side. Or to be more accurate, he just wanted to remove her from the whole thing. So when his boss made the suggestion that he take her away from the scene for a break, he jumped on the chance.
Once they were moving along in his car, though, he found himself wanting another few minutes of non-Hanes-related conversation. His earlier need to just spring the truth on her seemed needlessly abrupt.
Better to ease into it.
“Doing okay over there?” He paused, realized it was a bit of a ridiculous question considering the circumstances, then added, “Relatively speaking, I mean.”
She exhaled, then nodded. “I’m in one piece.”
“The team will take good care of Juanita,” he promised. “The VPD has some of the best officials around.”
“I know.”
The two-word reply was loaded with something heavier, but Lucien couldn’t pinpoint quite what it was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Not right at that moment, anyway.
He cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. “So...the records say that you moved recently.”
There was a brief hesitation before she answered, and he sneaked a look her way. Her expression was puzzled. Like she was thinking, Small talk? Really? After another second, though, she shook her head and let out a tiny sigh, accepting it.
“Yes,” she said. “I got a cat.”
It wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. “What?”
“A cat.”
“A cat?”
“Yes,” she said again, this time with a little smile. “Goes meow, is covered in fluff. Purrs and knocks over my flowers on purpose. Actually, he’s kind of a jerk, now that I think about it.”
He couldn’t fight a chuckle. “Glad he was worth a complete move.”
“He kind of was, though,” she replied. “He finally got me out my co-op lease. And you know I hated that place more than a little.”
He did know. She disliked the high-density housing location. Her property-management company was terrible at staying on top of maintenance. The only thing that had kept her there was the five-year buy-in she’d taken just before everything in her life got turned upside down. Moving early would’ve forfeited the investment. But admitting just how well Lucien remembered every detail would only draw unnecessary attention to his feelings, and probably also bring things back to the topic he was currently avoiding.
So he cleared his throat again. “And work? You quit the reception job, I heard.”
It was actually the last thing he’d found out before realizing that the tabs he kept on her were always going to be more than professional.
“That’s right,” she said. “I went back to school. Grief counseling.”
“Interesting work?”
“I like it, and I think I’m pretty good at it.”
He could picture it, actually. She’d be able to use her own experience as a solid foundation for helping others. He liked the idea that she could do that. Bring some good out of the bad.
They talked like that for a few more minutes, all of the conversation basic. Steered toward keeping things on the surface. He told her a few anecdotes about recent arrests—the same ones he saved for entertaining strangers at parties. She chatted about school, and said how she was surprised to find out she enjoyed learning, then asked about his career. He admitted to passing on an opportunity for promotion because it would’ve taken him out of the province, and he didn’t want to leave the West Coast. It was a good conversation. One that felt nearly normal. He even enjoyed it a little, even as he acknowledged just how badly he’d missed the simple sound of her voice. And every time things threatened to get more serious, or skirted around the past—which would inevitably lead to the Kitsilano Killer—Lucien very carefully turned things light again. Except when a slight lull hung in the exchange, Raven let out a small sigh, and her eyes fixed out the front of the car, and he realized he hadn’t been fooling her at all. Her next words confirmed it.
“You kind of suck at this, Lucien.” In spite of its content, the statement held no rancor. “Even if all that back there hadn’t just happened, and even if I couldn’t tell that we’re headed toward our old safe house, you still wouldn’t be able to just pretend we’re two old friends, catching up.”
His hands tightened on the wheel. He thought about arguing with her. Or pleading ignorance. The he thought better of it, and shook his head instead.
“I know,” he replied. “Never been very good at that fake it till you make it stuff.”
“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
He didn’t mean the question to sound so loaded, and her gaze flicked his way. He didn’t look toward her, but he could feel the curiosity in her stare. His fingers squeezed a bit harder. He did suck at surface stuff. At small talk.
But you’re way worse at the important stuff, aren’t you? he said to himself. If you weren’t, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did.
“Lucien...”
His name wasn’t much louder than an exhale, and it was tinged with emotion. She paused after she said it, and he braced himself for something. A confrontation, maybe. An accusation. For her to echo his own sour thoughts on his inability to express himself. None of it came. A moment later, she spoke again, her voice firmer.
“Why don’t you just tell me why you really came out and found me today?” she asked.
He worked to relax his hands. “I think we should wait until we get to the safe house.”
“No.” She said it sharply, and before Lucien could react to the surprising vehemence, her hand was beside his on the wheel.
“What are you doing?”
“If you don’t tell me, I’m pulling us over and I’m getting out.”
“Pulling us over? You’re not—”
Her hand gave a yank, and in spite of his own, stiff grip—or maybe because of it—the steering wheel turned an inch in her direction, then bounced back in his. The car shuddered. Lucien tried to adjust, but Raven pulled again. This time, the vehicle veered hard to the right.
“Raven!”
She tugged a third time, and the tires crossed the line, and sent gravel flying up. A horn honked from behind them, and even though Lucien didn’t believe she actually wanted to cause an accident, he slammed on the brakes and brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop. The moment they stopped moving. Raven slammed her seat belt off, flung open the door and jumped out. Cursing under his breath, Lucien followed.
“Raven!” he said again.
She flashed a look his way. It was angry and scared and hurt at the same time. Lucien took a step toward her, wanting to sooth it all away. As usual, words failed him. When he said nothing, she spun away, and the sight of her back brought a rush of memory in. The pale pink T-shirt she’d been wearing when he last saw her. The nagging surety that he was making the biggest mistake of his life by letting her go, battling with the knowledge that he wasn’t the right man for her.
I don’t want to go through that again.
“It’s Hanes,” he blurted.
She paused. “What is?”
“He escaped this morning during a transfer from one cell block to another.”
She turned back. Her expression was shocked, and she shook her head disbelievingly. For a second, he thought she was going to deny his claim. Instead, her eyes rolled back, and with a heartbeat to spare, Lucien realized she was in the process of passing out. He rushed forward and closed his arms around her just before she hit the ground.
Raven was having the most pleasant dream. But it wasn’t new. It was actually a variation of one of her favorite recurring ones.
In it, she and Lucien hadn’t gone their separate ways. He’d confessed his love to her in a gruff but meaningful way that suited him perfectly. They’d stuck it out, and were entering into blissful, wedded life.
It was cheesy as anything. But she didn’t care. It was a dream, and that’s what dreams were for. And this particular time, it felt extra real. She could smell the deep, musky scent that was uniquely Lucien. His arms cradled her close to his chest, and the warmth he exuded was much more enjoyable than her flannel sheets. She wriggled a little, trying to get closer. His grip tightened, and she sighed contentedly, her eyelids fluttering. She could even see him in this dream. And not vaguely. She smiled at the line of his chin. How could one man have such a perfect chin? And what even constituted a perfect chin?
Doesn’t matter, said Raven’s groggy brain. Whatever it is, Lucien has it.
“I’m so glad we did this,” she murmured.
“Did what?” he replied, his voice rumbling close to her ear.
“Got married.”
Under her, Lucien did a very non-romantic-dream thing. He let out a choked cough, then stumbled forward. His momentum drove them straight into a wall, crushing Raven between his big body and cedar paneling. The sharp pain in her shoulder made her eyes fly the rest of the way open, and too late, she clued in that it wasn’t a dream this time.
The last thing she remembered was standing across from Lucien on the side of the road as he delivered his shocking news. Now they were inside the front entryway of the safe house the two of them had called home for nearly nine weeks. And Lucien was carrying her for real. He’d probably carried her to the car, too. And now he was staring down at her, his chocolate colored gaze full of surprise.
Yeah, because you just told him you were glad you got married.
Embarrassment flooded through Raven, heating her face and making her stomach churn. The only good thing about the abject humiliation was that it temporarily distracted her from the terror that had gripped her when he’d revealed the truth about Georges Hanes.
Georges Hanes. Oh, God.
Her vision swam, and she had to work to keep from slipping away again. The man was free. And she was sure that whatever had happened to Jim and Juanita was intended to hurt her.
“Raven?” Lucien’s voice pulled her back to the moment, and she took a breath.
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I was just—” She cut herself off before the word dreaming could escape from her lips, and tried again, hoping Lucien either hadn’t noticed, or would simply let it go. “I’m fine. It was just a shock. You can put me down.”
He didn’t comply right away, though. Instead his mouth opened like he had something to say. She tensed, waiting for a statement that would add to her already heightened awkwardness. But after a moment, his jaw snapped shut again, and he stepped back and eased her to the floor.
“Here we are,” he said. “Should we go in?”
“Sure.”
She let him lead her up the hall to the open-concept living space. She knew the way, but stepping in behind Lucien gave her a minute to process their environment without his always observant eyes on her. And maybe he needed the time, too, because when they reached the attached kitchen and great room, he flicked on the gas fireplace, then gestured to the couch and suggested she sit down while he made some of their favorite hot chocolate.
We’re really here, she thought as she sank down into the familiar spot.
Her eyes roamed over the adjoined rooms, looking everywhere but right at Lucien.
It was the same as she remembered. Neutral but homey colors. Wide windows covered in beige curtains. Classy but durable furniture. Raven knew as much about it as if it had really been her home. If her own place had been designed with police-witness safety in mind, that is. Late one evening when neither she nor Lucien could sleep, he’d told her a rash of details. Like the fact that every piece of glass was the shatterproof kind. And that the bookcase across the room had a false back for storing weapons. Maybe it was weird to think of a living space like that as home. But Raven had felt secure. She’d liked it. She’d missed it when she’d moved back to her real apartment.
A hundred times, she’d considered driving by, just to get a look at the house. But the police had cautioned her against the idea. It could put some other, under-the-radar victim in jeopardy.
It was strange to her, to think that the moment she and Lucien walked out, someone else might’ve walked in. How many people had stayed there in the last three years? Had any of them felt like she had, and wished they never needed to leave, even when their ordeal was over?
Her gaze made another pass over the space. This time, something caught her eye. A small notepad jutted out from the edge of the fireplace mantel.
Raven pushed to her feet. She knew what it was before she even got close enough to snag it.
Country Kitchen.
Those were the words stamped onto the top of every page. And every three-inch-by-four-inch sheet was lined, and each row had a miniature cow on one side and a tiny rooster on the other.
When she lifted it up to take a look, she was expecting all of that. But what she wasn’t anticipating was to see a shopping list in her own, familiar handwriting.