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Maybe it was the unsub’s hair. Many young men wore their hair longer; some even bleached it blond. When they didn’t dye it green or blue. “How long would you say it is, Doc?”
“About sixteen inches. If you’d like, I can—”
“No rush, I have an idea what I’m looking for. Hair can wait, but fingerprints can’t. Did you find any on those condom wrappers?”
“Ah, yes. I almost forgot,” he added, looking sheepish for a moment. “Old age, I guess.” He picked up two evidence bags holding the purple wrappers covered in dark fingerprint powder. “Both wrappers have fingerprints on them, belonging to the same person. They were also torn in precisely the same way. One of the condoms had a partial that probably belongs to the same individual, but I’ll need the ten card to confirm.”
Kay cringed. The assault had been long, repeated. And brutal. He’d stopped, but then he wanted more, and raped her again. She found herself wishing Jenna had been unconscious for it. “Did you run the prints through AFIS?”
“It’s still running. Nothing yet.” Doc Whitmore took a seat on the stool with a quiet groan, then looked through his notes quickly. “This is preliminary, you know that, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Elliot replied. “You’ll let us know when you have anything else?”
Doc nodded, still staring at his notebook, following the scribbles on the page with the tip of his finger.
“Stomach contents?” Kay asked. “I need to map the last twenty-four hours of her life, and that would help me.”
“It’s next on my list,” he said, taking his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “Tox screen is pending too.”
They were almost at the door when Doc Whitmore caught up with them. “I knew I forgot something. I found fingerprints on that pink plastic hair clip we found at the scene. They don’t match Jenna’s.”
SIXTEEN
DRUNK
She didn’t get dressed until long after her daughter was picked up for school in Nick’s red Beemer. She’d let herself enjoy the soft touch of her fuzzy bathrobe, secretly planning a long, relaxing soak in the Jacuzzi after Alana left and she could finally stop arguing with her. What was it with that kid, looking to contradict every word she had to say, pushing boundaries as far as possible, willing them broken? She missed the daughter Alana had been only until a few years ago, when she’d say, “I love you, Mommy,” then stretch up on her toes to get a kiss.
Those days were long gone, never to return once the teenage years had descended upon her, with glares and scowls and oaths at every other word. Alexandria held on tightly every day, committed to investing every ounce of energy and commitment she had into making Alana the girl she couldn’t herself be at her age. A winner, a celebrated beauty, the most desirable young woman who would have her choice of men and careers and everything else she wanted. The good thing was, she read in some women’s magazine that teenagers aged too and, in their twenties, rediscovered their love for their mothers. All she had to do was wait the teenage years out and not burn any bridges with her rebel child.
She soaked for about an hour, letting her mind wander aimlessly. Then slipped on a black lace Fleur du Mal lingerie set, and picked a midnight-navy Milano silk shirt to go with a pair of stretch jeans that made her bum seem tighter, perkier than it was. A touch of concealer under her eyes, some lip gloss, and blush to add color to her pale skin, and she was ready.
She lingered in the kitchen, trying to decide what to do with the day. She could drive up the coast, to that quaint café overlooking the ocean, where she could take her time basking in the sun with a cappuccino in her hand, making small talk with the young barista who always seemed to check her out. Or she could go shopping in the city; she hadn’t driven down there in a while. Westfield Mall had tons of new fashion items every month, Hillsdale too. It would definitely be worth her time.
The doorbell chime interrupted her thoughts. Running her fingers quickly through her carefully styled hair, she shot herself a glance in the mirror as she walked over to the front door and smiled, satisfied with her youthful appearance. A look through the sidelight, and she recognized her lover’s car, parked in the driveway.
A flush of heat stormed through her blood as she opened the door. He stood there on the porch, unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes drilling into hers with urgency. She lowered her gaze, following his fingers as they did quick work of the last button, then dawdled with his belt buckle. He was already hard for her, impatient, demanding. Desire swept over her and took control of her mind, vibrating in every fiber of her body, setting her blood on fire, making her insides tremble with need.
She grabbed the front of his loose shirt and dragged him inside, finding his lips as she pushed the door shut. He lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around his body as he carried her into the bedroom. When she landed on the bed, she grabbed his tousled hair and held him close, unwilling to let the kiss end, but he pulled away and stood above her, studying her with an intense, serious look on his face as if deciding what to do to her. How to take her.
She squirmed and whimpered, eager and needy, but he silenced her with one finger held against her lips. Then he let that finger travel south until it met the luscious fabric of her shirt. Slowly, he undid one button at a time, his eyes dominating her into still submission. Her chest heaved with tormented breaths as he exposed her, peeling off the shirt and throwing it sideways to the floor. Her jeans were next, and then his. She reached for him with both her hands, yearning to touch his skin, but he pinned her wrists above her head and held her still, watching her, waiting.
“Please,” she whispered. “You’re driving me crazy.”
He brought his lips close to her ear. “Please, what?”
She whimpered, lost in a whirlwind of emotions as he made love to her, slowly yet passionately, building desire into her body instead of quenching it. She was his. She lived for his touch, for a moment of caress, for another day like that. There was no escape.
Spent and deliciously tired, she shifted in his embrace, running the tips of her fingers across his chest. “I love chest hairs on you,” she whispered. “Don’t ever start shaving it.”
He reached over and kissed her lips. “I’ve been considering it. All the movie stars do it these days. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because I like it like that,” she said, smiling. “It’s a sign of virility, and it turns me on.”
He chuckled. “Might not be good enough, I don’t know.” His eyes were serious, tense. He sat on the side of the bed and reached for his clothes. He was leaving.
He was always leaving.
Yet she had no right to ask him to stay.
