Memories of Us (21 page)

“You’ll be happy to hear that the DNA didn’t match to your sample.”

“I knew that.”

“It did, however, match to a degraded sample we pulled from her bedroom.” Tick swung onto the town’s main thoroughfare, in the direction of the sheriff’s department. “Ford says there’s a ninety-nine point eight percent chance the person with that DNA fathered Jessica’s baby.”

“The baby’s father killed her.” Tom narrowed his eyes. “But the other videos didn’t match up the time period for conception, did they?”

Tick shook his head, braking for a red light. “Obviously, she was sleeping with someone other than you last summer. Either she didn’t film him or he found his DVD the night he killed her.”

“Plus our killer is related to the first baby. Not enough of a match to be the father, but probably a close relative.”

“Sounds like you need DNA samples from the men on those DVDs.”

“It would be helpful.”

“When you apply for your court order, add Alton Baker’s name to the list.”

As he pulled into the parking lot at the sheriff’s department, Tick glanced at him. “Any particular reason?”

“Just call it a hunch.”

“Where’s Cook?”

McMillian’s too-calm voice lifted the hair at her nape. Engrossed in reviewing the files from Jessica’s office, she hadn’t heard him come in. She glanced around to find him standing in the foyer, watching her, his body tense and tight.

She turned her attention back to the adoption record before her. “Down the street in his unit. I kicked him out.”

“He’s supposed to be with you.” His voice was nearer this time, somewhere just over her shoulder. Thinly veiled anger pulsed in the deep tones. “Watching over you.”

Irritation trickled over her. Couldn’t he see she was busy? She had to get to the bottom of this case. She needed to, owed it to Cicely. “I don’t need a keeper, McMillian.”

His hand closed around her arm in a gently firm grip, and he tugged her up to face him. “This isn’t a goddamn game, Celia.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Then why the hell is Cook outside?”

She tried to remove her arm from his hold and failed. The tears she’d been unable to shed all day stung her eyes. “Because I didn’t want him here.”

He released her arm, sliding his hand up to cup her face, his thumb caressing her jaw. He didn’t say anything else, but the silent compassion in that touch broke her.

“I needed…I needed to be alone.” Her voice cracked, the frozen sobs welling into her throat, choking her. The tears slipped free and he caught the first one on his thumb as it slid down her cheek. “I didn’t want him here.”

“I know.” He smoothed her hair away from her face, a slow, rhythmic movement. “I know, baby.”

She closed her eyes as more tears fell. One of the clawing sobs tore from her throat, turning into a strangled moan. Another followed, and another, huge gulping sounds that hurt and frightened her. Still stroking her hair, he pulled her close. His deep voice murmured soothingly near her ear, although the words were lost to her own crying.

With him, away from the world, she could let go, let the grief have its way. She clutched at his shirtfront and held on, as the sobs and waves of sorrow battered her.

“I just want it to go away.” She gasped the words against his throat. “And I know it won’t.”

“Oh, Celia,” he whispered. “Baby, I’m sorry.”

“Tighter.” She pressed into him, wanting the solid warmth of him to chase away the memories. “Hold me tighter, Tom. I need you to.”

“I’m here, baby.” He moved, sliding an arm beneath her knees and lifting her against his chest. He carried her to the couch and settled with her on his lap. With her wrapped close, he rubbed a soothing hand over her back. She wept into the curve of his neck, crying until sleep finally took her into blessed numbness.

His concentration was shot to hell.

Tom lowered the file he’d picked up and glanced over his reading glasses at Celia, asleep on the couch. He’d covered her with a soft throw and turned the downstairs phone off. After she’d given in to her grief in his arms, he’d not wanted her relief from the consuming emotion disturbed. She’d clung to him, claimed to need him.

She’d called him Tom.

Even now, the rush of warmth the simple sound of his name on her lips created lingered, although he’d have rather had that blessing prompted under far different circumstances. However, the tenderness couldn’t quite displace the pervading sense of disquiet he’d carried with him since early that morning.

Beyond the tall glass doors, dusk hovered and he couldn’t shake the image of a lurking, shadowy threat.

He studied Celia’s face, relaxed in sleep. She’d been out for a couple of hours and he dreaded having to wake her, having to watch her face the reality of Cicely’s death again. He understood all too well the pain of losing someone intensely loved.

Damn it all, if he’d understood that fucking dream, Cicely might be alive. Here was the reason he’d hated the flashes of foreboding, the dreams, all his life. What good were they? He’d never been able to understand them enough to really stop anything from happening.

What had Celia called it, a Gift?

Like hell. More like the curse he’d always known it was.

The doorbell rang and he jumped. The adoption papers scattered to the floor and he left them, hurrying to the door before Celia woke. A quick look through the peephole revealed Rhett standing on the stoop.

Surprised, Tom swung the door open. His face set in lines of concern, Rhett stepped forward into the foyer area. “Tom, man, what is going on?”

“Keep your voice down.” Tom cast a glance over his shoulder. Celia slept on, hidden from Rhett’s view by the back of the couch. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with your family.”

Rhett looked at him, askance. “Raquel called me and then I saw the news reports about Celia’s murder…um, her death. They said you were a suspect. I figured you might need me down here and Mariah agreed I should come back.”

Tom shook his head. He looked outside, where shadows waited beyond his driveway lights. With a tight motion, he closed the door and threw the lock. “Everything’s under control. Amarie needs you right now; you should be in Atlanta.”

Rhett eyed the banker’s boxes and files littering the living room. “What are you doing?”

He strode forward into the living room before Tom could stop him. “Rhett, wait, you need to—”

“Holy shit.” Shock reverberated in Rhett’s deep voice and Tom swallowed a curse. He’d seen her and one more person would have to be in on their secret. A swallow moved the line of Rhett’s throat. “She’s alive.”

“Keep your voice down.” Tom waved a hand toward the stairs. “Come upstairs.”

They went up to his office and Tom closed the door. Rhett shot him an accusing look. “What’s going on, man? Why didn’t you tell me she was alive?”

Tom pitched his voice low, despite the closed door. “Because she could still be in danger and we were keeping this on a need-to-know basis.”

Rhett’s eyes narrowed. “So I get to think a colleague’s been murdered and my best friend’s a suspect in that murder? I don’t need to know differently? Thanks a lot, Tom.”

“Someone wanted her dead, Rhett. Keeping her safe was my first priority.”

Rhett passed a hand over the smooth surface of his scalp. “So who was the woman killed?”

Tom winced, remembering Celia’s tearing sobs. “Her sister.”

“Shit.” Rhett shook his head. “That’s a hell of a note.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m here. What can I do to help?”

An echo of his earlier disquiet shivered over him. Tom shrugged. “I—”

His cell phone, plugged in on his desk, rang. Leaning over, he saw Tick Calvert’s name displayed on the caller ID screen.

“I have to take this.” He picked up the phone. “McMillian.”

“We may have something.” Excitement colored Tick’s words. Tom’s skin prickled.

“What’s going on?”

“Alton Baker’s daughter is in the emergency room at Chandler General. She ran out in front of car over on Delta Pine Road.”

“On foot?”

“Yeah. Layla called it in. The girl is traumatized, became hysterical when they started talking about calling her father. Anyway, I thought you might want to meet me there.”

“I do.” Tom’s thoughts went to Celia, downstairs. He couldn’t leave her alone. “Hang on.” He covered the phone and looked at Rhett. “I need to meet Calvert at the hospital. Can you stay with Celia?”

“Sure.”

Nodding a thanks at him, Tom lifted the phone to his ear again. “I’m on my way.”

He clipped the phone on his belt. Rhett followed him downstairs. “What’s going on?”

Where had he put his keys? “Alton Baker’s daughter is in the ER. I’m just going to go check it out.”

Rhett perched on the chair Tom had vacated earlier and began picking up the scattered adoption papers. “You think she’s linked to Jessie?”

He snagged his keys from the foyer console table, almost knocking his golf bag over. “I don’t know. But something’s going on. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“Take your time.” Rhett glanced through one of the files.

Tom paused, his gaze falling on Celia’s tousled hair. His chest tightened. “Take care of her.”

A half-grin lifted Rhett’s mouth. “You got it, my man.”

Keys clutched in hand, Tom opened the door. The shadows hovered beyond the lights and the wave of disquiet hit him hard. Stiffening his spine, he stepped outside and locked the door behind him.

He’d left the Mercedes in the driveway for once and he walked around Rhett’s Lexus SUV. He sank into the driver’s seat and fired the engine. With a glance over his shoulder, he backed down the drive.

Darkness danced at the corner of his vision. He blinked, memories of his dream melding with the reality of seeing Cicely dead in Celia’s bed. A cold lump of dread settled in his gut.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

On the highway’s straightaway, he gunned the motor, pushing the speedometer needle higher.

He couldn’t breathe. His lungs cramped and his foot faltered on the accelerator. The dread and shadows filled the air around him, almost as though something evil sat in the car with him.

God, he was losing his damn mind. He had to be.

Go back.

The soft words whispered through his head.

They weren’t his thoughts.

The voice was quiet, female, vaguely familiar.

Go back.

More urgent this time, almost like fingers prodding his brain. Startled, he swerved, hit the brakes. The rumble strips bumped under the tires, grass rustled along the undercarriage as he pulled to a stop on the shoulder. His head pounded, the darkness looming around him, lights dancing before his eyes.

Head bent, he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to catch his breath, trying to pull himself together. God, he was really losing it. His lungs constricted, seeming unable to draw air.

Go back.

Fuck, this was ridiculous. He could go back and everything would be fine, just as he’d left it. He should pull into the light traffic, go on to the hospital, where surely Tick was waiting impatiently.

What if everything wasn’t fine?

He stilled.
That
was his brain, the logical prosecutor’s thought process, questioning everything. What if he went on, ignored the way his senses were screaming and it was the wrong choice? He dragged a hand down his face. He had to go back.

If anything, the sense of breathing evil grew stronger, his head pounding harder. He ignored it and pulled across the median, going back the way he’d came.

The soft voice came again, an almost inaudible pulsing under the shadows.

Hurry.

Celia dreamed.

A bright, sunny day, with sunbeams coming through the leaves of a sheltering oak tree. A butterfly skipped over tall grass. Her feet tucked under her on an old quilt, she leaned against the tree and stared up at the pattern of light and dark among the limbs.

Peace pervaded her, sinking into the depths of her being, wiping out the ravages of her grief.

A rustling caught her attention. Two women dressed in gauzy white walked toward her, similar in height, the sun bouncing off their blonde heads. Recognition shimmered through her.

“Mama.” Her lips parted on an awed whisper. “Cis.”

Her sister smiled and spoke, her lips moving without sound. The air wavered between them, and when Celia tried to scramble to her feet, rough, unseen hands held her prisoner. She struggled, her lungs hurting. “Mama!”

“Wake up, Celia.” The familiar, beloved voice whispered over her. “You have to go back.”

She struggled harder against the hands holding her, the darkness suddenly looming and pressing in on her, stealing the air from her body. “But—”

“Go back. Now, Celia. Wake up.”

She jerked awake, fear and a sense of panic trying to kick her in the chest. She blinked, once, twice, centering in on her surroundings. The vicious dreamlike hands were gone, and Tom’s living room came into slow focus around her. Levering up against the sofa arm, she glanced around for Tom.