Page 82 of Wicked Games

I let her crawl off the bed and watch her walk into the bathroom. The shower starts, and I run downstairs and trot across our yards. I really don’t want to leave her alone for any longer than I have to, and she can’t do anything in there if she doesn’t have her razor and shampoo and conditioner.

I quickly shove some of her clothes into one of her suitcases and toss a few things into a bag that looks like an airplane carry-on. Her laptop’s on the kitchen table, and I tuck it under my arm. I don’t see anything else that she’d want, but I can come back.

She’s only been in the shower for ten minutes when I bring her what she needs from her bathroom, and she’s standing under the spray, her head tipped back, her skin pale despite the warm water. She took the bandages off her wrists, but without the blood, the cuts don’t look too bad. There’s bruising though, from the zip-tie, and I get angry all over again.

Maybe she’s lulled into kind of a trance after what happened or she’s pushing back her emotions, but she doesn’t acknowledge me when I put her things on the edge of the tub and I don’t say anything either. I let the shower curtain fall back into place and shut the bathroom door behind me.

I need to keep busy or I’m going to explode, and I strip the bed and shove the sheets in the washer. Avery and I cleaned up after we ate dinner last night, and there’s nothing to do in the kitchen. I don’t have anything else that will keep my hands occupied, so I put on a fresh pot of coffee and dump a couple cans of chicken noodle soup into a pan to heat on the stove. She’ll be hungry, but I doubt her stomach will be able to handle anything heavy. I know mine can’t.

The shower’s still on, and because I have the time, I call LaSalle. He says he’s already been in contact with the LFPD, and they’ve got the DNR looking for the missing boat in case it pops up somewhere on the water. Maybe they can get some prints off it.

“Any guesses, Mr. Lockwood?” he asks, coughing.

“If I did, do you think we’d be in this mess?”

“Someone knew she was out there. Someone knew she was with you.”

“Yeah. You. Mueller, right? What do you make of that?”

This shuts him up because my theory this whole time has been that there’s a leak in the police department, and that could mean anyone for the right price knows our fucking business.

“As I said, that’s a complicated procedure, and even if there is a leak, that’s not the point. The point is, someone is murdering the people you’re close to, and we have to find out who and why.”

I frown. “Now you’re saying that someone killed Theo on purpose?” I didn’t realize my own thoughts had started shifting that way until I heard him say the words.

Sighing, LaSalle says, “With Mrs. Vale and now the attempt on Mrs. McKay’s life, it’s appearing so. You might not have loved your ex-wife, but you were still close. Someone found out that you’re in a relationship with Mrs. McKay and targeted her. We may need to go back to looking at your enemies, Mr. Lockwood. You said you don’t have any, but that’s obviously not true.”

“I don’t know who I could have hurt so badly that they’d do this to me. Violet and I started our business twenty years ago. We were practically kids. Maybe we pissed off a couple of people, but to do this? They’re killing people, LaSalle. That’s nothing to be taken lightly.”

“I know that and you know that, but who we’re dealing with, this could be an everyday thing.”

“Then what about Hattie Maitland?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s not connected. Maybe it’s something else.” He pauses. “Is Mrs. McKay hurt? She should file a police report and let them take pictures of any injuries.”

I hate hearing him call her by her ex-husband’s last name and my voice turns gruffer. “We’ll do that in the city. We’ll be driving in for Brooke’s funeral.”

He coughs. “Okay. Let me know when you get here.”

“Yeah.” I hang up, and in disgust and frustration, I toss my phone on the counter.

I’m stirring the soup when Avery comes downstairs dressed in a pair of lounging pants and a matching tank top. Her hair’s damp and her cheek looks horrible, but her face has a little color and her eyes aren’t so flat. I drop the spoon on the stove and snuggle her to me. There may come a day when she won’t let me, fed up with what she’ll have to deal with being my wife, but for now, she hugs me back.

I lean away and lower my head. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.”

I press my lips to hers, and some of my anxiety fades. She moans, asking for more, and I slip my tongue into her mouth. She tastes like she did the first time I kissed her. Sweet, but melancholy. Life had dumped a lot of shit on her that she was only just beginning to sort out. Now there’s more. Connected to her sister’s death, maybe. Connected to me, definitely.

She wraps her arms around my neck and I give her everything I can. I almost lost her. Two more minutes under the water and I might not have been able to revive her. I’d still be on that island breathing my life into her, desperate to keep her with me.

“How are you feeling?” I mumble against her lips.

She sighs and lets me go. “Okay. I’m still tired. Sore. Really sore.”

Brushing my thumb over the bruise on her cheek, I ask, “What happened here?”

“They pushed me into the boat, and I hit my head on an anchor.”