Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five) (5 page)

He reached out, pulled me toward him. We kissed, and I tried to deny feeling like we were embracing for the last time.

“I love you, Sloane. You will always be a part of me.” He cupped his hands around my face. “There are a few matters I must attend to when I leave here. There’s a good possibility I’ll be away for a while. I believe it would be best for us to—”

He choked back the words.

“To what?” I asked.

He looked away.

“Giovanni, please.”

“It would be best if you didn’t see me anymore.”

CHAPTER 7

“Do you want to talk about it?” Maddie squirmed in the passenger seat of the car, trying to get comfortable.

“About what?”

“Whatever happened at the hospital just now? You look like you’ve been stricken with a deadly virus. I talked to Daniela. Her brother lost an eyeball—so what? He’s going to be fine. He’ll get one of those glass eyes, and I tell you what, I’ll bet it makes him even hotter.”

“I’m not worried about his eye,” I said.

“What did he say to you?”

“He thinks the explosion is his fault—like someone has a personal vendetta against him and his family.”

“And they’d blow up an entire building, injuring and killing innocent people, because of it?”

I shrugged. “He thinks everyone he cares about is in danger right now—including me.”

“What about Carlo? What did he have to say?”

“Nothing. He didn’t say one thing about a personal connection. He confirmed a few people had died and said pressure-cooker bombs were responsible for the blast. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Maddie tipped her head to the side. “Sometimes it never does.”

…

The outside of the police station was impregnated with men in suits when we arrived. The suits were black. The shirts were white, button-up. The ties were navy, maroon, or black—muted—nothing flashy. From the neck down, they looked like adults wearing the same school-assigned uniform. No personality, no sign of individuality anywhere. I hoped for a hot-pink sock, a diamond-stud earring, anything to suggest there was even one renegade within the organization. I settled with disappointment.

The chief stopped us in front of his pickup truck before we parked the car.

“I thought we were meeting in your office,” I said.

“Best we talk out here. Too much corn inside.”

“Corn?”

“You know—ears. People listening.”

“Any updates?” I asked.

“A fourth fatality has just been confirmed, two others are in critical, and we’ve still got a few dozen injuries, most from those sitting closest to the stage. The chairs absorbed about half of the blast or we’d be dealing with a lot more.”

“And the pressure-cooker bombs,” I said. “Have they been confirmed?”

“From what we can piece together, there were three. Damn things shot shards of metal out as fast as bullets. Some of the victims had over thirty pieces of shrapnel stuck in them.” He raised a brow. “How do you know about the bombs? Have you been to see Giovanni?”

Even the sound of his name pained me. “Carlo.”

“Special Agent Luciana. Figures. What else did he say?”

“Not much. Any suspects?”

“The task force thinks we’re dealing with a terrorist group.”

“Based on what? This isn’t New York City.”

“The festival is a big deal, Sloane. You’ve got people flying in from all over, from multiple countries, celebrities, media coverage. Who knows how many other buildings might be targeted. We’ve got tourists leaving here in droves, most of the films have been shut down, and airport security is on high alert.”

“I understand taking precautions, but until you have a better idea of the person or group you’re dealing with—”

“There’s no way to know right now. We’re talking to everyone who was near the building for any reason over the past several days. So far we’ve got nothing. No one saw anything. We’ve got a few people of interest based on their backgrounds, but to be honest, I think they’ll all check out.”

Maddie, who up to this time had been silent, spoke up. “So when do I get access to the bodies?”

The chief sighed. “You don’t, hun. I’m sorry.”

“Isn’t that why you called me back?”

“I did everything I could to stall, but they couldn’t wait.”

“They
wouldn’t
wait is what you mean to say, right?”

“Madison, you know I want you in on this.”

“Who’d you give it to—who’s the ME?”

“Katherine Gellar.”

“Kate’s good, but she’s not me,” Maddie stated, arms crossed.

For a moment the chief forgot where he was—his lips brushed across Maddie’s cheek. “No one is.”

“Will I see you later?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

“Is there any chance I can take a look at the scene?” I asked.

He frowned. “That’s the other reason we’re out here and not in there. I know this is like an itch you just gotta scratch, but I need you to stay away from this. We’re handling it. With the task force here, you can’t come barging into my office like you usually do when you want something. Understand?”

“But I—”

“No, Sloane, and that’s final.”

CHAPTER 8

No
was one of those words that practically begged defiance. The first time I remember hearing it uttered to me was at the tender age of six. I asked for a bicycle. My father laughed at my request, shutting down my dream because we didn’t “have enough money.” What he should have said was we didn’t have the money because he spent it all on booze whenever he wasn’t working, and I doubted he clocked more than twenty hours a week.

Racked with guilt over the rejection, my mother helped me set up a lemonade stand by the street sign at the top of the hill. She even helped me color it. I drew yellow lemons across the top and bottom and gave each lemon a happy face. I thought if people driving by saw the smiley faces, it would make them happy, and then they’d buy my lemonade.

After sitting outside all day, every day, for two weeks, I’d finally earned enough money. That night I counted it all up, making sure I had just the right amount. Then I put it in a clear Mason jar and set in on my nightstand. I drifted off to sleep dreaming of popping wheelies and putting playing cards in the spokes of the bicycle wheel like all the other kids did.

It wasn’t to be.

The next morning I woke to find an empty jar on my nightstand. A note scribbled with a dull pencil was crumpled in front, waiting for me. It said: IOU, Dad.

Funny thing about IOUs.

Some people don’t have any intention of paying them back.

My dad was one of those people.

Still a bikeless wonder, the next summer I walked my elderly neighbor’s dog every day before sundown. She paid me ten dollars a week. I cut a slit in the lining of my bedroom curtains with my father’s carpenter’s knife and stuffed the money inside. A few nights I caught him stumbling into my room before bed and muttering “son of a bitch” when he stumbled back out. When I went in after him, some of my dolls and stuffed animals had been strewn about, but he hadn’t touched the drapes. He wasn’t smart enough. Or sober enough. Or both.

He never found the money.

And four weeks later, I bought my bike.

With the extra law enforcement in town, there were too many suits milling around for me to sneak over to the scene—at least for now. I’d have to start somewhere else and without the assistance of Maddie. I wasn’t the only one who’d be sitting this one out.

…

When I rounded the corner for home, I observed a faint glow radiating through the vertical blinds in my living room, casting a ray of light onto the wood decking on my back porch. There was only one problem with this scenario: thanks to my overwhelming desire to conserve energy, I never left anything more than a front porch light on when I wasn’t home. Not ever.

I considered Giovanni’s warning earlier that day, but I still didn’t want to believe it.

Was I in denial?

Could it be true?

Was someone after him, and, more importantly, had they come for me?

My concern escalated when the living room light flickered off for a moment and then back on again like a lighthouse sending an accidental signal. Only it wasn’t a signal at all—it was a human shadow crossing the room.

Panic gripped me.

I’d left my Westie with a neighbor while I was supposed to be vacationing in Vegas, but when I spoke to her earlier in the day, she said she’d put him in my bathroom while she went shopping in Salt Lake City with her sister. It was just after nine o’clock. I called her. She was still at the mall, and she hadn’t left any lights on in my house.

If an intruder
was
in the house, why wasn’t he barking?

I swallowed, forcing myself not to assume the worst. I couldn’t. Not yet.

I switched my headlights off and coasted to a stop. Without taking my eyes off the back porch window, I eased my hand down the side of the car door, lifting my 9mm semi-automatic from the pocket. I pulled back on the slide, racking a round into the chamber.

In seconds I’d made it to the side of the house. With my back firmly pressed against the wood exterior, I inched my way over until I’d reached the edge. I drew my gun and poked my head around the corner.

I saw no one.

But I heard humming.

Someone was humming the tune of a song I’d never heard before. Whether the voice was male or female, I couldn’t tell. I eased the back door open with the tips of my fingers, stepped inside, and aimed.

CHAPTER 9

With my free hand, I flipped the switch on the wall while holding the gun steady in front of me. Light illuminated the room. The petite frame in front of me swaying her hips from side to side was female, but in a baseball cap, and with her backside to me, it was impossible to assess her age.

I yanked the earplugs from her ears.

“Face me and put your hands where I can see them,” I demanded.

She didn’t turn around.

I cleared my throat. “I asked you to face me. Do it. Now.”

She turned around, hands held partially in the air, fingers curled toward me, zombie style. She wore a jean mini skirt and a t-shirt tight enough to get her a job as a HOOTERS girl.

I gasped. “Shelby?”

“Can I put my hands down now or are you plannin’ on makin’ a citizen’s arrest?”

She flung her head back and snorted a laugh.

Shelby McCoy was the daughter of a detective I’d worked with a few months earlier on a missing children’s case I helped solve in Wyoming. She was rude and obstinate, and even worse, a teenager. We didn’t get along.

“How did you get in here?” I said.

“You left a key to the house on the back porch.”

“I most certainly did not.”

She pointed. “Uh, yeah, you did.”

“How did you—”

“Find it?” she cut in. “Under the doormat—too obvious. Over the door frame—too predictable. But taped to the inside of the broken knob on your barbeque grill? Now that’s clever. I have to admit, it took me over five minutes, but…” she said, digging inside her pocket and dangling it in front of me on the tip of her pointer finger, “here it is. Ta-da.”

I pointed toward the sofa, unamused. “Sit.”

“Or what—you’ll call the cops?”

“Why don’t we start by calling your father? I’m guessing he doesn’t know you’re here, or I would have had some kind of warning by now. Now sit.”

“Put the gun down.”

“Sit,” I repeated.

“Only if you put the gun down first. It’s freaking me out. Seriously.”

I released the hammer slowly, putting the pistol on safety before depositing it onto the counter. Shelby sat on the edge of the sofa, one butt cheek on, one teetering off. She glared at me as if she’d bolt if she didn’t like what I was about to say.

“Where’s my dog?” I asked.

She whistled.

Lord Berkeley bounded around the corner, collar jingling, bone clenched between his teeth. Today he’d received a big, fat F in the subject of owner protection.

“Cute dog. What’s her name?”

“Lord Berkeley,” I said. “Sometimes Boo.”

“Your dog has two names?”

“Boo’s a nickname.”

“Oh I get it, because she’s white.”

“He.”

“Well,
he
tried to eat me when I opened the door,” she said, pointing. “Good thing I had a granola bar in my pocket.”

A granola bar?

“How did you know where I live?” I asked.

“Your return address was on the card you sent my grandmother after my grandfather died.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My dad kicked me out.”

I doubted there was any truth to her statement.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Lie to me again, and I’ll kick you out too.”

She rolled her eyes so far back inside her head, all I could see were the whites. “All right.” She flopped her body into a slouched position on the sofa, joined her fingers behind her head, and sighed with dramatic flair. “I’ve been, ahh, seein’ this guy Jace for a few weeks. He’s so nice. And cute. And—”

“Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“I’m getting to it, geez.”

Only she wasn’t. She was stalling.

“Last week he kind of got arrested for doing drugs.”

How do you ‘kind of’ get arrested?

“And umm…my dad was the one who busted him,” she continued. “Cuffed him right in front of me.”

Good for him.

“My dad said I couldn’t see Jace again as long as I was under his roof, which is really my grandmother’s roof while we’re building a house. I tried to tell him that, but…”

“So you left? Where’s your car?”

She bobbed her shoulders up and down. “Don’t have one.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“I…umm…hitched.”

“You thumbed a ride?” I asked.

“Two rides. Why not?”

“And your dad thinks you’re where exactly?”

She shrugged.

“Are you telling me you haven’t talked to him since you left?” I asked.

She stared down at her sparkly, pink Converse. “I was hopin’ you could…you know…talk to him for me.”