A Killing Kind of Love: A Dark, Standalone Romantic Suspense (21 page)

He rubbed one eye and straightened in the leather wing chair, one of two that flanked the fireplace in his wood-paneled study. He was surprised he’d dozed off at all, even though it had been for less than twenty minutes. He seldom slept when Erin was away from home. Always tense and vaguely terrorized by the thought that this time she wouldn’t come back, he rarely let her go out on her own. But earlier tonight she’d begged him, and he’d allowed it.

Damn, I’m such a fool.
He picked up the glass on the table beside his chair, twirled the last of his cognac, watched it catch a sudden flicker of flame from the dying fire, then downed it.

Yes, a fool.
He shouldn’t give a good goddamn where she was—he should toss her out on her junkie ass.

Why he needed this uncontrollable, unpredictable woman in his life remained a mystery to him. Her addictions were killing her—killing him. She was his third wife and his biggest mistake, but even in his darkest hours with her, he couldn’t imagine her not being in his life.

It wasn’t as if any of this mess was a surprise—or it shouldn’t have been. He knew what she was when he married her. She’d warned him.

“I have to get well myself, Paul. You can’t fix me,” she’d told him.

He’d ignored her, made her promise to try, and said he’d do the rest. But so far all the doctors and treatment centers he forced her into had done nothing except buy some tense periods of clean time and smooth over the occasional bump in the road. He was losing the battle, and Paul Grantman hated to lose.

After years in the trenches fighting Erin’s addiction, he was more and more afraid she was right; he couldn’t do it for her. His money couldn’t do it. Even his misguided obsession with her couldn’t do it.

All he could hope for now was that her having a child to care for would accomplish what he hadn’t. She would have that child. He’d see to that.

By a sick twist of fate, Holly’s brutal murder was Erin’s latest, and perhaps last, chance for survival; it had come down to Kylie.

Paul put his head back, closed his eyes to shut out the pain of losing Holly. He quickly opened them again. Holly was gone, and his moaning wouldn’t bring her back. Hell, he didn’t even have a lead on her killer despite two of the best PIs in the business working on it.

He rubbed his chin and let out a long, irritated breath.
The mighty Paul Grantman thinks he can play God, control everything and everyone around him.
Holly’s words, made especially ironic by tonight’s events, because he sure as hell hadn’t controlled his wife.

Edgy, increasingly tense, he set his empty glass on the table, stared into the dying fire, then rose to go and poke at it. His thoughts went back to Erin—as they always did— and to her determination to go out alone.

“It’s just a dinner with a couple of girlfriends, Paul. I haven’t seen them in ages,” she’d said. “I’ll be fine. I promise.” She’d given him a pleading look. “You know how much I want Kylie . . . for us to be a real family. I won’t do anything to ruin that chance.”

“I don’t like it. You’re still too vulnerable.” He lifted her chin. “You’ve had three months clean before, remember?”

Wrapping her arms around him, she’d looked up. “I know, but this time is different. I’ll be home by ten. I promise.” She crossed her heart, adding, “I need to know I can do this— go out on my own, trust myself, with no Maury following me. Okay?”

He’d hesitated at that, but finally, after more pleading, he’d given in to what she wanted. His agreement still lay like dirt on his tongue.

Who the hell knew what she was doing out there, alone, no one looking out for her? When she used drugs, drank too much, she was dangerously unpredictable. Anything could happen.
And I let her go.

Again he poked at the fire, this time impatiently, then tossed on another perfectly cut log.

He’d started calling her at eleven, but she must have turned her cell off, because all he got was her voice mail.

His chest tightened, and he leaned an arm along the mantel, rested his head on it, suddenly weary, as if beaten down by time rushing fast and heavy over aging bones. Time laced with sins, old and new.

He’d failed with Holly, and he was failing with Erin. Maybe Holly had been right when she’d said in her letter that Erin was “too far gone,” that she “wasn’t worth loving” and would ruin his life. He closed his eyes. Holly had said Erin was the “last person on earth” she wanted raising her daughter—along with him, who apparently she loved, but found “overprotective and controlling” and not what she wanted for Kylie. No, she wanted Camryn Bruce, as she’d made clear in her guardianship paper and her letter.

A soft rapping at the door had him lift his head, expectant, hopeful.

It was Maury. “She’s not back?” he asked.

“No.” Maury was fully dressed, Paul noted, ready to go. Which didn’t surprise him; they’d both been down this road before. Paul glanced at his watch. Almost 2:30. The waiting was over, anger elbowed melancholy aside.

“Get a car, Maury. Meet me at the front door, and bring that notebook you found in Erin’s luggage, the one you said had phone numbers you didn’t recognize.”

“Which car?”

Paul thought a moment. “The truck. The one the gardener uses.” He had no idea what kind of neighborhood they’d end up in; an expensive car would attract attention.

“Done. I’ll be out front in five minutes. If I were you, I’d grab a windbreaker. It’s a hellish night.”

Paul strode down the hall to his bedroom. “Hellish” wasn’t even close.

“Dan, wake up!” Camryn put her mouth close to his ear, shook his shoulder.

She was on her knees beside him. The couch had obviously failed the comfort test, and he’d opted for the floor. The room was dark except for the night-light she kept on in the hall. She could barely make out his face.

His eyes snapped open, immediately focused on her face. His hand gripped her arm. “What is it? Is Kylie okay?”

“She’s fine, but there’s someone at the top of the driveway,” she whispered. “Standing there, watching the house.”

He was on his feet in a second. He was wearing jeans, but was bare-chested. “Show me.”

“My room,” she said, “You can see better from there. No trees in the way.” Her chest was drum-tight, and her legs were stiff as pegs, but her voice was calm enough. She would not panic—she wouldn’t.

Dan followed her up the stairs to her dark bedroom, and she took his hand and led him to her window. Her driveway, maybe a hundred yards long, with only one easy bend, took a gentle slope to her house.

“There.” She pointed to where a figure stood to the side at the top of the driveway. “Do you see?”

Dan didn’t answer, but she sensed his tension, his concentration as he stared out the window. The night was wet and fierce, the window glass a river of rain. Camryn had installed one decorative light at the top of the driveway, but it functioned as more of a guide light than to provide illumination. At this end of the lake, there was only the occasional streetlight and none directly in front of Camryn’s old house.

“There,” she said again, pointing. “Across from the light—under the tree on the side of the vacant lot.” She didn’t whisper this time but did keep her voice low. The shadowy shape hadn’t moved from where she’d spotted it a few minutes ago when she’d first looked out the window. Unable to sleep, she’d gotten up for a drink of water and, while sipping it, had taken a moment to look out at the storm.

Her heart hadn’t found its rhythm since.

“Got it.” He dropped the curtain he’d been holding back and headed for the stairs.

“You’re going out there?” She didn’t bother to remind him that if it was whoever had been there earlier shooting through her kitchen window, chances were they still had a gun; Dan wasn’t stupid. He knew the risk he was taking—but so did Camryn, which had her heart leaping crazily in her chest and a knot of panic constricting her lungs. “Maybe it’s . . . nothing. Nobody. Maybe—”

He cut her off. “If nothing else, I’ll get close enough to get a visual. There’s lots of cover along your property line.” He headed for the door, made it in a few long strides. “While I check it out, you know who to call.”

Camryn nodded, but before heading for the phone to call the police, she glanced back out the window. “Wait.” She pulled back the curtain again, gave him a come-here gesture with her hand. “Look.”

An old-model truck had pulled up close to the specter standing so chillingly still at the top of her driveway, the only movement around its form a long coat billowing in the wind. As Dan came back to her side, two men got out of the truck and strode to where the figure stood. They each took an arm and led the person quickly toward the truck. While Camryn was certain enough by their walk and bearing that the new players were men, she still couldn’t make out whether the raincoat-clad shadow who’d been looking at her house was a man or a woman.

“Shit.” Dan said, not taking his eyes off the trio now getting into the cab of the truck.

“Whoever it is, he—or maybe she—isn’t resisting,” Camryn said. “I think they all know each other.” She barely got the words out before the truck drove away. Not with a screech of tires, but slowly, quietly, as if not wanting to attract attention.

For a few seconds she and Dan stood there, saying nothing. When relief suddenly eased the stiffness in Camryn’s legs, weakening her knees, she gripped the windowsill, then took the few steps to the plump, overstuffed reading chaise she’d placed near the window. She often read here when the house was quiet and her work was done for the day. A neat stack of books sat on a table beside it. Sitting down, somewhat awkwardly, she knocked a couple of them off the pile.

“Are you okay?” Dan asked, turning from the window.

“Fine. I just needed to sit down,” she said, ignoring the fallen books.

“Can we have a light on?”

She fumbled for the reading lamp beside the chaise, switched it on low, and was surprised to find her hands were cold—and as untrustworthy as her legs. Dan stood over her, shirtless—a lean, hard-jawed giant, who, with his hands planted on his hips, looked both angry and frustrated. She knew he hated that they were gone, that he couldn’t do anything. But she was relieved.

Bringing her hands together, she rested them in her lap, forced herself not to wring them or grip too tightly. God, she was acting—make that overacting—like a young extra in a horror movie—except for the screaming.

Camryn didn’t scream, Camryn held on. Camryn held things together—persevered. Camryn was strong, a rock. Isn’t that what her mother always said? Responsible, independent . . . tough. It’s how her mother saw her, and it had become how she saw herself. But the truth was suddenly more complex than a mother’s skewed vision, which had somehow become her own. The truth was she’d never been tested—until she’d faced gunshots in her kitchen and ghosts in her driveway. Now all she felt was a gnawing fear.

Dan’s eyes bored into her. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes, or will be when I catch my breath.”

He knelt in front of her and took her chilled hands in his warm ones. “You’re trembling. Sit back.” He reached around her and grabbed a pillow, put it behind her. “And put your feet up,” he ordered, lifting her bare feet from the floor and putting them on the lounge. He drew the blanket she kept at its base up to her waist, then sat beside her, one hand resting on her knee. “You’ve had a hell of a night.”

Not about to acknowledge that, she said, “Could you see anything? Get any idea of who that was?”

He shook his head. “A woman. That’s all I got.”

“How can you be sure?”

He shrugged. “Can’t. But the way she moved, the outline of her, that’s my guess.”

“Maybe it was nothing, nothing at all,” Camryn said, her voice rough, as though the words had scratched her throat on the way out. “Maybe it was a neighbor or someone who lives close by waiting to be picked up by friends. I probably panicked for no good reason.” She knew her words were nearer hope than truth.

“You didn’t panic.” He shifted his hip on the chaise, rested his palm on the other side of her knees. “And even if it was someone waiting for a ride, it doesn’t matter. You did right coming to get me.”

She noticed he didn’t bother pointing out that the chances of a woman standing in a miserable storm on a dark street miles from anywhere, waiting for a ride, were remote. He didn’t have to. Her stomach acid hot, her mind suddenly on spin cycle, she realized that any sane person would figure the truth out, and one truth led to another. She forced herself to calm down, get a grip, however meager, on the events of the evening. The shooting had been bad enough. To think they were being watched—for whatever reason—made her half crazy with fear. She couldn’t wrap her mind around any of this, but one thing was super clear: Kylie was at risk—and all her positive thinking and stupid denials wouldn’t change that. The thought that she couldn’t protect Kylie made her soul ache. She had to do something, and she had to do it fast.

“I’m afraid, Dan,” she said. “Not for me—for Kylie.” She paused, a thought coming, a way out of this sitting-duck kind of morass they were mired in. “Paul Grantman is back at the lake by now. His place is four, maybe five miles south of here. I think we
—I
should ask him to take Kylie until this situation, or whatever it is, is resolved.” She felt him stiffen.

“We don’t need Grantman’s help. I can take care of my daughter.” A pause. “And I can take care of you.”

She ignored the last, not wanting to go there. “You might not need him, or like him, but this isn’t about your ego or his. It’s about Kylie. She’d be safe there. His estate is gated and has enough security to fend off a SWAT team. If Kylie were there, she’d be safe.” She swallowed. “It would leave us free to find out what’s going on around here.” She didn’t stumble over her use of the word “us” because it felt right—comfortable.

After another long silence, he said, “It could work against you, you know. Asking Paul for help is saying you can’t handle things. He could use it in court. And he would.”

“As could you.”

He twisted his lips as if that fact didn’t sit well, but he had no comeback.