Chapter 18
With her eyes closed, Maleah lay in the
tub, bubbles up to her chin and soothing warm water surrounding her
tired body. As hard as she tried to empty her mind, to concentrate
on her breathing so that she could relax, her mind wouldn’t slow
down and allow her a few precious moments of peace. She didn’t want
to think about anything or anyone. She didn’t want to worry herself
sick about her brother Jackson and his family. The thought that
they could be in danger had crossed her mind ever since Winston
Corbett’s murder, but she had managed to subdue her concerns in
order to do her job. But no longer. Not now. Not after what Derek
had told her.
Browning said to tell
you that he’s eager to see you again. And . . . he sends his
regards to your brother Jack and his wife and
son.
But did Browning actually know who the
copycat had targeted as his next victim or did that evil bastard
just want them to think he knew?
Logic told her that the best way she
could help her brother, his wife, and son was to continue her
visits with Browning. For the time being, he seemed to be their
only link to the killer. Pure emotion urged her to go home to
Dunmore, to place herself between her brother and his family and
any danger that might come their way. But Griff had already sent in
other agents—one each to guard Jack, Cathy, and Seth. Knowing the
danger they were in couldn’t be good for Cathy or the baby she was
carrying. If anything happened to that innocent little life . .
.
Maleah slid down into the tub until her
head hit the water, separating the thick bubbles into two big
mounds on either side.
Stop thinking, damn it,
stop thinking.
She sunk lower until she submerged her
entire head under the water.
Jack and his family are
safe. And you’re going to do what you have to do—see Jerome
Browning again.
Maleah rose from the watery grave,
rivulets of soapy water racing down her head, across her shoulders
and over her bare breasts. As she grappled around at the bottom of
the tub searching for her washcloth, she shook her head sideways to
dislodge any water trapped in her ears.
“Always shake your head,” Jackson had
told her the first time he’d given her a swimming lesson. “Like
this.” He had demonstrated the motion for her. “It’ll help get the
water out of your ears. I don’t want my kid sister getting
swimmer’s ear.”
She loved Jack more than anyone on
earth. He was not only her brother. He was her hero.
“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry that my being a
Powell agent has put you and your family in danger.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. God, how
she hated weak, weepy women. Women like her mother. She would never
be like that. She would never let some man beat her into the ground
and walk all over her. Even if it meant spending the rest of her
life alone, she would never willingly give any man the power to
hurt her.
After finally finding her washcloth,
she brought it up from the bottom of the tub, wrung out the excess
water and wiped her face with the damp cloth. She had no idea how
long she’d been in the tub, thinking, trying not to think and
fighting the almost overwhelming urge to cry. But the once hot
water was now tepid and her fingertips were puckered, so she
figured she had been in the tub too long.
She rose from the water, stepped out
onto the bathmat and reached for a thick, fluffy towel. She draped
a towel around her wet hair and then retrieved another and dried
off, from face to feet. As she slipped into her clean panties, she
debated about putting on a bra, but quickly dismissed the thought
of going braless. After all, she didn’t want Derek to think she was
trying to be provocative.
If only she didn’t have to see Derek
again tonight. If only he wasn’t her partner on this case. But he
was her partner and for a very good reason—his expertise as a
profiler could prove invaluable. And she did have to see him again
tonight. They had work to do.
While she dressed, she reminded herself
that Derek really was not a problem. He was her partner. She needed
him as much as he needed her. Like it or not, they were a
team.
Once she’d gotten to know him, when
they had worked together on the Midnight Killer case, Maleah
realized that some of her preconceived notions about Derek were
wrong. But some were dead on. He was arrogant. But only
occasionally. Most rich, handsome, intelligent men were. He was a
womanizer who went through women as if they were Kleenex. Stupid
women. And from the first day they met when he had tried to charm
her, she had begun putting up a protective barrier between them. No
way was she going to fall for a guy who thought he could sweet talk
any woman he wanted into his bed. But what she hated most about
Derek was the way he tried to boss her around and make all the
decisions for her. Or at least he had in the beginning. Now, he
actually made an effort not to go all macho he-man on her,
delegating her to the role of helpless female.
No, Derek was not the major problem in
her life right now.
Jerome Browning was the
problem.
She needed to know whatever Browning
knew.
She had to find a way to make him
talk.
And she would do it, no matter what the
cost to her.
Alone on the patio, Nicole stared up
the night sky filled with countless tiny, sparkling stars, distant
light peeping through pinpricks in a heavenly black canvas. An
overwhelming sense of doom settled over her, a foreboding feeling
of desolation and danger. But she was safe. Everyone within the
protective walls of Griffin’s Rest was safe. So why did she feel as
if she were dying by slow, excruciating degrees?
God, Nic, don’t be
overly dramatic. You’re not dying. You’re worried and upset and
pissed at your husband.
If she didn’t love Griff so damn much,
she would have packed her bags and left long before now. She would
have put some distance between her and Griff, for her own sanity.
But she had tried that before, spending time away from him, and in
the end, she always came home. Home where her heart was. Home to
the man she loved more than life itself.
And the bittersweet thing about loving
Griff was knowing that he loved her in the same wildly, desperately
passionate way.
She didn’t doubt his love or his
loyalty.
And yet she didn’t trust him to be
totally honest with her.
In her gut, she knew he was keeping
something from her, something possibly so terrible that he couldn’t
bear for her to know.
But Sanders knew.
And Yvette knew.
Tears lodged in her throat. She
wouldn’t cry. Crying was pointless. It served no purpose other than
to give her a splitting headache.
Griff had left the house less than an
hour ago. He had asked her to go with him. She had declined. Before
leaving her, he had searched her face as if seeking her approval.
He didn’t need it. He did as he pleased. If she had asked him not
to go, he would have gone anyway. And he would have asked her to
understand.
But how could she
understand?
Her husband loved another
woman.
How many times had Griff told her that
his love for Yvette was that of a brother for a sister, of one
battleweary comrade for another, of a friend for a friend? She
believed he meant what he said.
And yet she wondered what would happen
if he ever had to choose between the two women in his life, the two
women he loved. The bond he shared with Yvette and Sanders, a bond
he told her had been forged in hell, could not be broken and it was
a bond she couldn’t share. She had not lived on Amara, a captive of
billionaire madman Malcolm York. She had not shared their
particular torment and torture and inhuman treatment. At best, she
was a sympathetic outsider to their goddamn holy Amara trinity of
wounded souls.
She had lived through her own
particular hell when she had been kidnapped by a psychopathic
serial killer who had hunted his victims as if they were animals.
After she escaped from her captor, Griff had told her about the
time he had spent on Amara. Knowing that he truly understood what
she had gone through had helped her not only recover and believe
she could return to a normal life, but it helped her trust Griff.
Trust him with her life. Trust him with her heart.
It had taken quite some time after they
married for her to realize that he had not told her everything
about his experience on Amara, and that he had no intention of ever
telling her.
“We made a pact, Sanders, Yvette and
I,” Griff had told her. “We would never tell another living soul
everything we endured and that only with the other two’s permission
would we ever discuss any part of our experience with someone
else.”
Sanders and Yvette had allowed him to
share a part of their story with her. To help her heal. And she
knew that the threesome had agreed to bring Derek Lawrence, Luke
Sentell and the Powell Agency lawyer, Camden Hendrix, into the
inner circle that also included her. Their knowledge was limited,
even more so than hers; but they knew that Griff, Sanders, and
Yvette had killed Malcolm York, a monster who had tortured and
murdered numerous people on his private Pacific Island of
Amara.
Griff had not wanted her to tell
Maleah, but she had finally made him understand that she badly
needed to confide in her best friend. During the past few years,
Maleah had become the sister she never had.
Nic rose from the chaise lounge, walked
off the patio and onto the pathway that led from the house to the
lake. Suddenly she sensed his presence, a gigantic form coming out
of the shadows. She didn’t bother to turn around and look his way.
Griff had assigned Shaughnessy Hood as her personal bodyguard and
she was never to leave the house without him. Ignoring her
protector, she made her way down to the peacefully serene
riverbank.
Damn it, Griff, why did
you have to go to Yvette? Why did you feel it necessary to check on
her in person? You could have called her. It’s not as if Michelle
Allen isn’t at her side night and day, protecting her just as
Shaughnessy protects me.
Room service arrived and set up their
dinner on the balcony overlooking the ocean as Derek had requested.
He phoned Maleah and she arrived promptly just as the waiter left.
He took one look at her, hair hanging to her shoulders in soft
blonde waves, a pale pink cotton sweater loosely covering her hips
that were encased in white jeans, and wished she were any other
woman on earth. If she wasn’t Maleah Perdue, the personification of
I-am-woman-hear-me-roar, he would move heaven and earth to get her
into his bed tonight.
“What’s the matter?” she
asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re looking at me funny. Do I have
toothpaste on the corner of my mouth? Or did I forget to zip my
jeans?”
“No toothpaste, no unzipped jeans,” he
said. “Come on in. We’re having dinner on the balcony. I hope that
meets with your approval.”
“Isn’t it a bit too warm to eat
outside?”
“Actually, it’s not.” He took her hand
in his. Surprisingly, she didn’t jerk away from him. “It’s a
beautiful, balmy evening.”
When they reached the door, she paused.
“Dinner by candlelight? Isn’t something that romantic wasted on
us?”
He opened the door, held it, and
quickly ushered her onto the balcony. “It’s not romantic, just
pleasantly civilized.”
She glanced down at the candle lanterns
and the covered dishes. “What am I eating tonight?”
“Madame will begin with a traditional
Caesar salad, followed by Creole Florida black grouper topped with
creamy Cajun crab and shrimp sauce over a bed of sautéed baby
spinach.”
“Oh my God, that sounds
delicious.”
Acting the gentleman, he helped seat
her and then took his place across from her. “I know you said not
to order dessert, but . . .”
“I am not eating dessert,” she told
him.
“It’s triple chocolate
cheesecake.”
“You sure know how to torture a
girl.”
“Honey, dessert every once in a while
is not going to ruin that gorgeous figure.”
She snapped up her head and stared at
him. He knew what was coming. She was going to tell him not to call
her honey. She had chastised him repeatedly, but every once in a
while, he simply forgot.
But then, to his surprise, she said,
“Thank you for the compliment, even if you didn’t mean
it.”
“You’re welcome.” He waited a few
seconds before adding, “And I meant it.”
She removed the cover from her meal and
sighed. “This looks wonderful.”
He followed her lead, revealed his
twelve-ounce rib eye, and lifted his knife and fork. For the next
twenty minutes, they ate in relative silence, occasionally
exchanging a few words.
While Derek enjoyed his slice of
cheesecake, Maleah excused herself to go inside and make a phone
call.
“I want to check on Jack,” she
said.
“Give him and Cathy my
best.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
After Derek finished with dessert, he
blew out the candles inside the glass lanterns on the small table
and waited around outside on the balcony for another five minutes,
giving Maleah her privacy. He understood how concerned she was
about her brother and his family. She had every right to be worried
because they had no way of knowing where the copycat killer would
strike next. And that was the reason he had asked Griff to assign
agents to discreetly guard his mother as well as his sister and her
family. There was no way the Powell Agency could provide private
protection for every employee’s family, but considering Derek’s
personal connection to Browning now, Griff had agreed that it was
wise to guard Derek’s family.
By the time he went inside, Maleah was
ending her conversation. “Derek sends his best,” she told her
brother as she smiled at Derek. “Yes, I’ll tell him. That works
both ways, you know.” She laughed. “Take care, big
brother.”
Maleah slid her thin phone into the
front pocket of her jeans.
“What did Jack want you to tell me?”
Derek asked.
“Oh, he said as my partner, he expects
you to have my back.”
“Ah. And you told him that it works
both ways. You’ve got my back, too.”
“Isn’t that the way a partnership
works, each partner takes care of the other?”
“Yes, ma’am, I believe you’re
right.”
“Should we call down and ask them to
clear away our dinner dishes?” She glanced at the remains of their
delicious meal still on the balcony.
“I’ll take care of it before I go to
bed,” he told her.
“All right then, partner, let’s get to
work.” Maleah pulled out the swivel chair from the desk and
indicated for him to sit. When he did, she plopped down on the blue
and white striped sofa directly across from the desk.
He turned to face her. “Barbara Jean
called earlier this evening.”
“And?”
“Nothing really. She just gave me bits
and pieces of information that she thought might help me work up a
profile on the copycat.”
“Would you mind sharing the information
with me?”
He quoted Barbara Jean almost word for
word and waited for Maleah to respond. When she didn’t, he added,
“You should know that, at least for the time being, Sanders is
completely in charge of the copycat case. Griff is preoccupied with
proving his theory that someone calling himself Malcolm York is
behind the murders. Luke Sentell is in Austria, following a
lead.”
“I hope Griff is wrong,” Maleah said.
“Besides, don’t you think it would be a truly odd coincidence if it
turns out that someone impersonating Malcolm York is behind the
murders, considering the fact that we now know someone is
impersonating Albert Durham?”
“Stranger things have
happened.”
“Do you think the fake Albert Durham
and the elusive risen-from-the-dead York could be the same person?
’
Derek got up, walked around the white
coffee table and sat down beside Maleah. She turned sideways and
faced him.
“It’s possible,” he said. “Anything is
possible.”
“A lot of help you are.”
He shrugged.
“Do you think you can put together a
profile with what little information we have?”
“I’m going to try. We have to start
somewhere and as we learn more about our copycat killer, I can
revise the profile if necessary.”
“Will it help to talk it out, to
discuss—?”
“Absolutely. Some good back and forth
discussion between the two of us could help,” he told her. “We’ll
combine your thoughts and mine on the subject of our copycat
killer.”
“You talk. I’ll listen and
comment.”
“The Copycat Carver is an odd bird.”
Derek leaned back against the thickly padded sofa cushions and
spread out his arm, bringing his fingertips within touching
distance of Maleah’s neck. “He’s gone to a great deal of trouble to
copy Jerome Browning’s MO and yet he deliberately sent the pieces
of flesh he removed from the victims’ bodies to you instead of
hiding them away somewhere the way Browning did. Why?”
“Why did he send them to me or why did
he alter Browning’s MO in respect to the pieces of
flesh?”
“Either. Both.”
“The reason he didn’t stick strictly to
Browning’s MO was because he wanted to send me a message and what
better way of doing that than by giving me what would have been the
Carver’s most prized possessions.”
“Very good reasoning.”
“Thanks.”
“We’ve agreed that for some reason,
it’s important to the copycat for you to be personally involved in
this case. That’s why he chose Browning to emulate.”
“Because Browning killed Noah Laborde,
my former boyfriend.” Maleah looked at Derek, concern in her hazel
brown eyes. “But the question is why me? If Nic or Griff is the
real target, then . . .” She paused for a full minute. “Could it
really be that simple? Is he making me jump through hoops simply
because he can and he wants Nic to know he can control her best
friend? And what better way to hurt Nic than through me,
right?”
“It’s definitely what Griff thinks and
it does make a crazy kind of sense. If tormenting Nic and Griff is
his objective, then he’s punishing them for some reason. He’s going
to strike again and again, possibly getting closer and closer to
his ultimate target with each kill, eventually discarding the
Carver’s MO.”
“If that’s the case, then what are the
odds that he’ll try to kill me before he moves on to Nic and
Griff?”