Page 14 of Murder Notes

“There’s always pressure to close cases and calm the public, and that doesn’t always mean solving the case.”

“You mean creating a fall guy.”

“That’s right. And I don’t do fall guys.”

“But Kane Mendez isn’t anyone’s easy fall guy.”

“You’re right,” Murphy says. “He’s not, but when you appear invincible, you become a challenge.”

My brow furrows. “I really don’t understand what’s going on here.”

“Just go catch me a killer, Agent Love.”

“I will,” I assure him. “But you should know that Rivera wants me off the case. He’s going to be a problem, but I’ll handle it.”

“If you need me to—”

“I don’t. This was just an FYI.”

“Noted. Check in tomorrow.” He ends the call and I start the engine, but I pause as Kane’s words come back to me: I handled it. Let it go.

I’m suddenly not sure whether he was talking about the past and my secret, or the present and tonight’s murder.

I pull onto the highway with one thought: my secret has secrets. It’s that thought that directs my path. I start driving and instead of ending up at the cottage I rented, I find myself in the garage of the beach house I inherited from my mother, while my father maintains what he calls the “Master House.” I never really understood why we had two homes only miles from each other, but I always suspected my mother kept this house to get some much-needed space from my father. Although he tended to follow her, so I’m not certain it worked. Whatever the case, it became my getaway after I left Cornell to recover from her death. And then later it became a weekend getaway from the city when I decided two years of law school was enough and joined the NYPD.

This is also the place.

This is where the man with the tattoo attacked me. Where a strange turn took place that I can’t explain. Something beyond self-defense. Something that now defines who I am. Or maybe it defines who I always was and didn’t dare admit, even to myself.

Whatever the case, if the man from that night is connected to these murders, and I believe he is, then this is where I will find answers and how I will catch a killer. And you don’t catch a killer by hiding from him. You catch him by getting to know him.

Killing the engine, I don’t give myself time to replay the past. I open the door, grab my bag, walk straight to the entrance, key in my security code, and then dial the security service, giving them a password and letting them know that the house is occupied. Entering the kitchen, I flip on the light, illuminating whitewashed cabinets, then pull my bag over my head and toss it on the granite island. My gun I keep, but I don’t scan the house. I don’t even see the house. Not now. I can’t see anything right now but the past. I need to face my fears, and I walk across the tiled floors and go straight to the patio, shoving the curtain aside to open the door, then walking outside, shutting it behind me. A chilly breeze gushes off the ocean, and my stomach knots. But I’m doing this. I’m going to the beach. I’m going to that spot where it all happened. I start walking. And walking. And then running. I run as hard as I can until I’m standing in the place where it all happened. I inhale the salty sea air and hold my hands out, letting my face reach to the sky, the full moon seeming to cast a light on my guilt.

Images flicker in my head but refuse to take form. I’m back in my recurring nightmare, but I’m awake. I look down and blood is pooling at my feet. So much blood. Too much blood. I blink and it’s gone. Now, there is just sand. I sit down. I inhale and then lie back, stretching my arms and hands to my sides, willing the memory of the past to come to me. In it I will find answers, and I realize now that’s what I need. Real answers. But nothing comes to me. I lie there, and lie there some more, and after all the times the past has haunted me, it eludes me now. I don’t know how long I stay there, but finally, I force myself to give up. I stand, scanning the ocean, expecting it to turn to blood, but it simply crashes to the shore.

I turn to the house and take a step, then stop abruptly, a shadow flickering by the house. A shiver runs down my spine. There it is again. Another shadow. Someone is there. It’s then that I flash back to being on this very sand with that tattooed man on top of me. Then that I remember Kane grabbing my arms and saying, “I’ll take care of it.” And I let him, and did so without asking questions, until it was too late to change the outcome. Because I was weak that night, and he was strong. But I am not weak anymore.

I pull my weapon and start running for the house, wind in my hair and face, my heart thundering in my ears, and I don’t stop until I’m staring at the blood splattered all over the patio glass, some kind of note pinned in the center. Adrenaline surges through me, but I am in my Otherworld now. I retain my cool. I walk to the patio door, using the end of my shirt to open the door, and then I systematically search every inch of the house. When I know I’m alone, I walk to my bag, pull on gloves, and then walk back outside, yanking the note off the door. Returning back inside, I lock the door and pull the blinds, and then I open the note. At the top is the alphabet, pasted in paper letters, with an X across the letter A. The note reads:

A is for the Apple a day that keeps the doctor away. But a doctor couldn’t help him, could he?

I KNOW.

CHAPTER FIVE

I hold the note in my gloved hand, the world spinning around me, nothing but black-and-white space, fading in and out. No room. No thoughts. No sounds. Seconds tick by, or maybe it’s minutes. Too long until my first coherent thought. I’m spinning out of control for too damn long. I don’t do out of control. Not anymore. Never anymore. I blink and mentally shove myself back to reality, aware of my heart thundering in my chest, of blood rushing in my ears. And damn it to hell, my knees are weak and my hand trembles where it holds the note.

I read it again, focused on two words: I know. And the blood, or rather what looks like some sort of paint on second glance, splattered on the sliding glass door tells me exactly what that means, what this person is referencing. Someone other than Kane and me was here that night. Someone who saw everything, or enough to be dangerous, and that knowledge shakes me to the core. I inhale slowly, drawing in a thick breath and pushing air in and out of the tight cavity I believe is still my chest. Damn it. I think I might be hyperventilating for the first time in my life. Now. Here. Not in puddles of blood or examining a dead body, but rather with the panic of being caught.

Rejecting the weakness that I don’t have time to own, I try another breath and repeat the same torture. Damn it, I am hyperventilating, and I do not give myself permission to do this. I straighten my spine and suck in air fast and hard, ignoring the pain. I remind myself that I’m no rookie at catching guilty assholes, and this isn’t the first time one of them has come after me. It is, however, the first time I was also a guilty asshole, but that’s beside the point. Actually, it really is the point, but that isn’t the point.Holy fuck, I need to calm the heck down. I’m back to sounding like Texas again.

“Otherworld, Lilah. Work the crime scene, Lilah. Deal with the personal side of this later, Lilah.” My teeth set hard. I’m freaking talking to myself. I really hate people who talk to themselves, almost as much as I hate people who do stupid things. I also hate people who do bad things, and I have now qualified for all three categories. Especially the bad-things part, or I wouldn’t be living my own idiocy right now, nor would my family be at risk of doing the same. However, thinking about said idiocy, while perhaps more necessary than I’d like, can’t happen right now. Actions have to happen right now. Decisions have to be made, and despite my desire to do so, I’m not going to be able to walk on eggshells until morning.

Crossing the room, I walk into the kitchen where I locate my field bag on the gray stone counter, unzip it, and remove a Baggie. Without giving the note another look, I stick it inside and seal it away. A murder note. A name that fits for reasons I didn’t plan to allow anyone to know aside from Kane, and yet, someone does know. And that someone knows me while I do not know them, and that is dangerously unacceptable. But I’ll find out who is behind this, and once I do . . . well, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

Resolved to find this asshole, I slip my field bag over my shoulder, my eyes landing on my keys. The fact that I don’t remember setting them on the counter speaks to my state of mind when I walked in the door. If I don’t find a way to really, truly disconnect myself from my personal feelings, my problems are going to have problems. And when your problems start to have problems, you’re either the good guy that just got killed or the bad guy who just got caught. I don’t like either option.

I start to turn away but stop, my gaze back on those keys, and for reasons I can’t explain, I’m uncomfortable leaving them sitting where they are. I snatch them up, and I’m on the move this time, exiting the kitchen and walking through the living area, but I tune out the room. Most especially the décor that reminds me of my mother, rejecting the emotions she stirs in me. I can’t be Laura Love’s daughter right now.