Blood And Bone (4 page)

And an uneasy Heddi was as pleasant as an uneasy grizzly bear.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you see my father, tell him I’m looking for him.”

Des nodded. “I’ll pass the message along.”

Kate left his office, closing the door behind her. Once she was gone, he slumped down in the chair and closed his eyes. A steady throb beat behind his eyes. Rehashing his issues with his sister on the heels of renting a house to Shayne Reynolds had left him antsy and restless.

He made a quick mental calculation, subtracting his meager commission from what he owed. Who was he kidding? He’d be facing retirement before he paid all the money back.

A sick smothering settled over him, something akin to a panic attack. He needed to finish up and get the hell out of there. Out of this office. Out of this town. Before he lost his fucking mind.

Shayne peered up at the clapboard house. A ripple of unease raced along her spine. Complete with peeling paint, broken windows and a front door hanging drunkenly from one hinge, the house looked haunted. And certainly abandoned.

What was she doing here? She should be out buying linens and groceries, not visiting a twenty-five-year-old crime scene. Yet when she’d seen the sign for River Road, she couldn’t stop herself.

There were only six houses on the road, with acres of forest between them. Gwen and Robert Anderson’s hadn’t been hard to find. Sheer neglect made the forgotten building stand out.

She wasn’t sure who owned the property now, but she’d make a point of finding out. Then come back with her camera and permission. While clearly no one was living there, she was likely still trespassing. She should probably get back in her car and head out to the highway. Instead, she started for the house.

Just a quick look around, then she’d go.

Birds tittered in the forest canopy and a slight wind stirred the humid air before dropping off. The mossy smells of earth and old leaves tickled her nose. Above her, dark clouds had eclipsed the sunny blue sky, and thunder rumbled low and distant.

Good, maybe a storm would finally break the heat wave.

Again the wind picked up, whispering through the leaves like a thousand tiny voices. She looked up at the empty house, which had seen so much violence and death. A shiver slid over her skin.

As she mounted the porch, the spongy, rotted wood bowed a little beneath her weight. With her luck, she’d fall right through. Carefully, she eased forward, sliding her sneakers over the mossy planks until she reached the door. After shouldering the flimsy screen door aside, she turned the knob. Locked. Damn. She moved to the large picture window and tried to peer inside.

The wood under her feet groaned ominously as she squinted to see through the grime covering the glass like a brown film. She couldn’t see anything, the dirt too thick. Maybe if she checked around back. After all, she couldn’t be the first person to try and get in. No doubt the house had been a huge draw for morbid teenagers over the past twenty-five years.

“You ought to get away from that house, before you get hurt.”

Shayne whirled around at the sound of a male voice, her heart leaping into her throat.

The man stood about five feet from the bottom of the porch steps, between her and her car. The bill of his stained baseball cap cast a shadow over most of his face, except for the affable grin lifting his grisly cheeks. His smile seemed much less friendly, though, when combined with the rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Dangerous place to be for a woman alone,” he said.

Funny, she hadn’t thought so until now.

Chapter Three

“Men who murder their families do so for a number of reasons, from frustrations with family life, to psychosis, to a sense of entitlement, but in almost all scenarios the act of killing boils down to a need for control. In Robert Anderson’s case, it was assumed he feared his young wife would leave him, taking their two-year-old son with her.”

—
excerpt from
Blood and Bone
by Shayne Reynolds

Shayne’s pulse thudded in her ears. She slid her hands into the rear pockets of her jeans so the strange man wouldn’t see them shake. “I didn’t hear you come up Mr.—”

“Folks just call me Tic,” he told her cheerfully as he reached up and adjusted his cap. His chilly blue gaze traveled up her body, lingering on her chest before meeting her eyes. “I was out doing a little hunting when I spotted you.”

Normally, such blatant ogling would have merely annoyed her, but right then the man’s behavior left her feeling vulnerable, isolated. Despite his pleasant grin and amiable tone, there was something vaguely threatening about Tic—besides the gun.

Her mind flashed to her midnight caller from the night before.
You come to Dark Water, you won’t leave.
Could this be the man who’d called, and was he here to make good on his threat? His voice didn’t sound as deep as the one on her phone, but she’d been half-asleep at the time…and if he’d been trying to disguise it…he could be the same person. But why? Who was he?

“I see,” she said, wanting to keep their interaction as superficial as possible. She started down the steps, every muscle in her body tense, ready to bolt if he started to reach for his gun.

“You’re that writer.” His smile remained fixed in place but didn’t quite reach the arctic gaze tracking her every step. Brown stubble covered his weathered cheeks, and despite the lines at the corners of his eyes, there was an odd agelessness about him. He might have been forty, he might have been sixty, she couldn’t say for sure.

“I am.” She kept walking, making a wide circle around him in an attempt to keep her distance while she edged closer to her car.

He turned with her. “I thought so.”

His nose was crooked, with a pronounced bump on the bridge. He’d no doubt broken it—more than once probably. Huge arms emerged from the frayed edges where the sleeves had been cut at the shoulders of his denim shirt. He looked like a brawler. His muscles weren’t sculpted like a man who spent hours in a gym, but thick and solid. His arms belonged to a man who had lived his life doing a lot of heavy lifting. In complete contrast to his shoulders and arms, his rounded belly draped over the waistband of his stained khakis.

“You like to write about killers?” His jovial voice sent a chill through her. In her line of work, she’d met a number of dangerous men, and she didn’t doubt for a moment this guy could go toe-to-toe with any of them.

Shayne didn’t bother to answer his question as she eased around him. She wouldn’t be drawn into whatever game Tic was playing. Careful to keep her eyes on him, she backed toward her car.

Tic’s smile broadened as if he found her behavior amusing. Not that she blamed him. After all, he didn’t need to wait for her to turn around to blow a hole through her.

“It was nice meeting you, Ms. Reynolds,” he called as she opened the car door. He knew her name, and she doubted this encounter was accidental. Had he been following her?

She slid behind the wheel, slammed the door closed and pressed the button for the power locks. The
clunk
of the bolts sliding into place eased a little of the tension gripping her. She let out a slow breath and started the car.

As she pulled away from the house, she glanced at the grinning man in the rearview mirror. A shiver rippled along her skin. Why did she feel like he was
letting
her go—at least for now?

Shayne set her fork down on the edge of the plate, her stomach mildly stretched, and leaned back against the cushioned booth. She must have been hungrier than she realized. With thoughts still flitting to her odd run-in with Tic and the nervous churning the man caused in her belly, she hadn’t been sure she’d be able to eat at all. But between the restaurant’s savory air and the sound of rain pelting the window next to her as the sky outside darkened, a coziness wrapped around her, easing some of the tension from her shoulders.

The newspaper she’d read through dinner had proved to be a welcome distraction also. Reading at the table, her mother would be appalled. Shayne smiled to herself and took a sip of her iced tea.

She set the glass down and lifted her cell phone to check if she’d somehow missed a call. Nope. Nothing so far. She blew out a slow sigh and set the cell back down. A phone at the table, even worse manners than reading, but she’d already left two messages for Robert Anderson and didn’t want to risk missing his call. Though, why he’d ask her to call him about the envelope, then refuse to call her back, she couldn’t understand. Gaze fixed on the silent phone, she tapped her blunt fingernail on the tabletop.

“I recognized you from across the room and had to come over and introduce myself.”

Shayne looked up at the middle-aged man standing beside her table. Tic’s affable grin flashed in her head and a faint shiver slithered over her skin.
You and everyone else, apparently
.

“That’s not necessary.” She glanced around the bistro, in search of her waitress. Time to get the bill.

The man next to her let out a chuckle that sounded a little forced. “I’m sorry, but it is. I’m Ian Grey.”

Oops. Gwendolyn’s brother, not a deranged stalker. Heat flooded her cheeks. “Of course, Mr. Grey. I’m sorry if I appeared standoffish. I had a strange experience earlier today. Please sit down.”

“Call me Ian.” He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat. His thin lips split into a blinding smile, made brighter by the darkness of his bronze tan. “It’s a pleasure to meet you face-to-face at last.”

Sure it is
. After he’d ignored her repeated attempts to contact him, he came off less than sincere. Still, at least he hadn’t threatened to sue her…yet. “Your family’s been very clear about their feelings regarding my book. Does running into you here have anything to do with your nephew?”

His smile dimmed. He reached up and smoothed his thinning, silver-blond hair. “My nephew?”

“Des. He rented me a house today.”

“I’m surprised he was willing to help you at all.” A chill crept into his voice, his smarmy charm evaporating. He clearly didn’t like the idea of her speaking to Des. Was he merely protective, or was his nephew the weak link in their family’s closed ranks?

Somehow she didn’t think so. “Me too. But he was very clear he wouldn’t change his mind about participating.”

“I see.” Ian nodded slowly, his irritation fading. “Which house are you renting?”

“It was a fishing cabin, owned by a widow.” She shrugged.

“Ah, the Matheson place.”

The waitress finally emerged from wherever she’d been and sauntered to the table.

“Ally, you look lovely tonight,” Ian said, his gaze moving appreciatively up and down the young girl’s slight frame.

Disgust curdled Shayne’s insides. The waitress had to be at least eighteen to serve alcohol, but that was of little comfort while watching some creepy letch check her out.

Ally giggled, but her expression hardened when she turned her attention to Shayne. “Will there be anything else?”

“Coffee please, Ally,” Ian said.

The girl nodded at him and sashayed to the kitchen. Ally would probably spit in hers.

“I must admit,” Shayne said, dragging Ian’s gaze away from Ally’s swaying backside, “I’m surprised you’re speaking to me now.”

Ian chuckled and leaned closer so his hands, flat on the tabletop, slid past the midway point, his fingertips less than an inch away from hers. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you anything I say to you is strictly off the record.”

Shayne bristled, shifted back and rested her hands in her lap. “If I were interviewing you, you’d know it.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean anything, but you must understand, my sister’s behavior during both her marriages was extremely embarrassing for my family. With Gwen dead, what good can come from making those details public? Details that could hurt her surviving children.”

Gwendolyn had left her first husband for Robert, and the months between their wedding date and Des’s birth weren’t even close to nine. The relationship had clearly begun while she was still married. Could she have been involved with another man while married to Robert? Was that why she’d wanted to leave him? The possibility certainly fit.

“I have no intention of exploiting or damaging your sister’s memory, nor do I want to hurt her loved ones. No matter what she did or didn’t do, she certainly didn’t deserve her fate, and neither did her son.”

“That may be, but, as I said, what good can dredging it all up do?”

“Hopefully, anyone who reads the book can learn from it. There are certain behaviors and personality traits common to men who murder their families. Perhaps someone might recognize those traits in their own relationship or that of a loved one, and the same tragedy could be prevented from occurring again.”

Ian watched her intently. Maybe he was protective of his niece and nephew, and not a total skeez, after all. Ally returned with their coffees, and Ian’s gaze fixed on her breasts jiggling against her fitted blouse.

Ick. Still a skeez.

“Could I get the check, please?” Shayne asked the waitress, handing over her credit card. Ally nodded and hurried away.

“Leaving so soon?” Ian asked.

“I’m afraid so. I have some shopping left to do.”

He leaned back. “I have to admit, you’ve provided a very convincing argument. I’d like to talk more about your book and my sister. Perhaps I could stop in at the cottage one evening.”

Not frickin’ likely
. She grabbed her bag from beside her, produced a business card and handed it to him. “I don’t conduct interviews or meet with sources in my home, but, if you’d like to set up an appointment, please call me. I’d be happy to make the arrangements.”

She would have liked to tell him to get lost. Deep down, she didn’t believe for a moment he was interested in participating in her book, but he was the only Grey speaking to her willingly, and she couldn’t simply blow him off.

Ian’s gaze shifted to something over her shoulder and his beaming smile slid away.

“Vivian,” he said, his voice flat. “What are you doing here?”

Shayne turned as a scowling woman dressed in a pale yellow skirt that pulled a little too tightly at the hips made her way to their table. Her hair, a dull blonde and brittle from overprocessing, framed her round face in a pageboy cut.