Epiphany (Legacy of Payne) (10 page)

Running away was impossible though. Memories were like wounds that scabbed over but never completely healed. I squeezed my eyes shut as I thought of Six, and I knew the memory of finding her like we had tonight would never fade.

I sensed Aidan’s return before he draped a towel around my shoulders. “I turned up the heat,” he said. “This should help too.” He flipped a switch and the fireplace lit up. A push of a button and poof—instant heat. “I’m sorry about Six.”

“I failed her. She was so good to me, and I failed her.” I pulled the towel tighter, as if I could wrap myself in a cocoon that would protect me from my guilt.

“You can’t blame yourself. Trust me. It’ll eat you up until there’s nothing left.”

I met his eyes and was instantly aware of how close we stood. He seemed to realize it too because he averted his gaze. I hugged myself tighter, unable to stop shivering.

“You’re still freezing. Come on,” he said, taking my hand. “I won’t be responsible for you catching pneumonia.”

“Where are we going?” My eyes grew wide as he escorted me downstairs.

“You need a hot shower. I’ll dry your clothes while you warm up. Shouldn’t take too long.” He flipped the light on in the hall, and as I followed him down the narrow corridor, I hoped my cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt. The thought of being naked in his home was disconcerting. We halted at the door to what I assumed was his bedroom; it stood ajar, revealing a room cast in soft light from a lamp on the nightstand. A four-poster bed overwhelmed the space with its masculinity.

I pulled my hand from his. The setting was too intimate, and I was too raw from everything that had happened.

He seemed to understand my apprehension. “I’ll leave you to it. Bathroom is at the end. You’ll find everything you need in the cupboard.” He cleared his throat. “Just set your clothes outside and I’ll toss them in the dryer for you.” He gave me one last lingering stare before entering his room and shutting the door.

Shadows deepened as I neared the end of the hall and gooseflesh erupted on my arms, though I blamed the chill on my soggy clothing. I pulled a door open and instantly realized it was the wrong one. A cavernous garage big enough to house two cars, though only one was parked inside, appeared to run the length of the hall. The sight rooted me to the spot. There was nothing extraordinary or out of place about the garage . . . except for the lone vehicle sitting there—a silver BMW sporting Idaho plates.

I shut the door in a rush and snatched my hand back, as if I’d been caught sneaking into the cookie jar. The bathroom was across from the garage. I hurried inside and locked the door, and I could only think of one thing.

Idaho . . . as in Boise. As in . . . The Boise Hangman.

I recoiled from the thought with my entire being. I 
knew 
him. The feeling was irrational, but I’d put my life in his hands. Besides, he’d been in the emergency room the night Six disappeared. There was no way, yet . . . it was too coincidental. The sheriff’s words came back to me, casting new light on my discovery.

“You have zero objectivity on this. I mean it—go home.”

As I undressed and tossed my clothes into the hallway, I tried to piece together the puzzle that was Aidan. The shower spray went a long way toward warming me up, but I still felt frozen on the inside. I leaned against the wall, my breaths coming in short gasps as I recalled how he’d hung around the Pour House every night, always quiet but observant, and how he’d magically shown up at Six’s apartment. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there in shock, my body steaming from the hot water, but when Aidan’s knock sounded on the door sometime later, I about jumped out of my skin.

“Your clothes are dry. I’m leaving them on the floor,” he called through the door. “I’ll be upstairs.”

My hands shook as I dressed, and I straightened my shoulders and drew in a breath before leaving the bathroom. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I hurried down the hall. I bounded up the staircase and found him standing in front of the windows. He’d changed into a dry pair of jeans and a white T-shirt.

“Better?” he asked, turning to face me.

“I accidentally opened the door to the garage. I thought it was the bathroom.”

“Sorry, I should’ve mentioned which door—” He cursed under his breath. “You saw my car.”

“You’re from Boise, aren’t you?”

He looked everywhere but at me. “Yeah.”

“What’s going on, Aidan?”

His face became an impenetrable mask. “Nothing.”

I crossed my arms. “Then I guess we’re done talking.”

His jaw twitched once, twice, and he took a step forward. “We’re far from done. I covered for you tonight with the sheriff. How did you know where to find her?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Not crazy. Foolish maybe, but not crazy.”

“I dreamed about it.” I studied my feet, avoiding the moment when incredulity would flash across his face
.
 A few seconds ticked by. “Say something,” I pleaded.

His clothes rustled when he moved, and his feet came into view. He lifted my chin with fingers as warm as sun-kissed skin, and I had no choice but to look at him.

“You dreamed about her murder?”

“Yeah.”

Aidan’s eyes widened. “What did you see?”

I blinked. He believed me . . . and I could barely believe it. “I saw what he did to her.” My throat thickened, making it difficult to get the words out. “I saw him drag her through the woods. Saw the rock shelter.”

“What did he look like? Did you recognize him?”

“I didn’t see him. I mean, he was there, but the dream didn’t reveal any details about him. I only saw his hands.”

Disquiet settled over us, and I never thought silence could be so loud. He gripped my shoulders when I tried to pull away, and his face was close—close enough to notice the tiny golden flecks in his eyes. Something suspiciously close to grief lived in them.

“Doesn’t help much, does it?” I said. “The dream came too late. Six is dead.”

“It’s not your fault, Mackenzie. You did what you could.”

I pulled away from him, and this time he let me go. “You’re from Boise,” I began, needing to get back to his role in all of this. “And you arrived in town around the same time the Hangman did. What’s your connection to all of this? And don’t tell me you’re only housesitting.”

“Technically, I 
am 
housesitting. My mother owns this place.”

I just about lost it. “No, don’t you do that. Not after everything I just told you.”

“Do what?”

“Duck and evade.” I advanced on him until we stood close enough to breathe the same air. “Six is 
dead
. Murdered. This isn’t a game.”

“This has never been a game.” His wounded expression nearly got to me, but I stood my ground. “In fact,” he continued, “you should take what happened to her as a sign.” He brought his hands up and framed my face, and I closed my eyes against the warmth of his skin, against the emotions boiling between us. “Leave town, before something happens to you too.”

My eyes flew open. “Why do you care? Why are you even here?” I cried.

He dropped his hands. “The sheriff was right. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“What are you talking about? You didn’t drag me into anything. I’m the one who dreamed about her murder.”

He was shaking his head before I finished speaking. “I should have kept my distance. I never should’ve gone back into that damn bar to apologize. Better you think I’m a complete ass.”

“Don’t worry, there’s still hope for that.” I folded my arms. “First someone attacks you, then you slam the door in my face, and just this morning I found you in Six’s apartment. Why can’t you be straight with me?”

“Because you’re better off not knowing!” His words ricocheted off the walls. “You don’t want to know what goes through my head, Mackenzie. It’s nothing but baggage.”

“I’ll find out on my own then.” I turned and stomped toward the door. Yanking my jacket from the rack, I groped the pockets. “Give me my keys.” I whirled around and bumped into him, and my breath caught.

“You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.”

I retreated, but he matched my steps, body unyielding as he trapped me between him and the door, his strong arms braced on either side.

“If you have any sense at all, you’ll get the hell out of Dodge and forget you ever met me.”

“Maybe I’d consider getting out of Dodge if you’d tell me why.”

“A serial killer on the loose isn’t reason enough for you?”

It should have been, and maybe it would have been before my dreams turned horrifying—before I knew he existed. “I’m not leaving Watcher’s Point.”

“Why not?” Our breaths mingled, hot and moist, and my pulse tap-danced in my ears. His gaze fell to my mouth and lingered there. Until that moment, I hadn’t known for sure.

Now I did. He felt it too—a sizzling connection—though something held him back. Baggage, he’d said. I had a good amount of it too.

“There’s nothing to go back to.”

“Don’t you have family and friends?” he asked.

“I’ve bared enough of my soul for one night. You’ve remained a closed book.” I gave him a considering look. “What’s your story, Aidan?” For the first time in my life, I wanted to see something in my dreams. I wanted to see him.

“The bastard killed my wife.” His expression solidified into granite. “And when I find him, he’ll wish the devil himself had gotten to him first.”

Something inside me cracked right along with Aidan’s expression. Everything he’d been hiding spilled from his eyes.

“Aidan . . .”

“I need a drink.” He strode away, leaving me glued to the spot where he’d trapped me. A crash resounded from the kitchen, followed by splintering glass. I willed my feet to move, ignoring the little voice of reason pointing out that maybe I should leave him be for now.

He was sweeping broken glass into a dustpan when I walked in. “Are you okay?” Instantly, I wished I could cast a net and pull back the stupid, inconsiderate question. Of course he wasn’t okay. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not . . . okay.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know what you meant.” He emptied the dustpan into the trashcan and then opened a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, all the while refusing to meet my eyes.

“Mind sharing?” I asked. If there was ever a time for drinking, it was now.

“I thought you were beyond corruptible.”

I recalled how he’d said something similar on Halloween. “You remember more about that night than you let on, don’t you?”

He pulled two tumblers from a dark cherry wood cabinet. “I remember you, Bonnie.” Amber liquid sloshed into both glasses as he poured, and a moment later he closed the distance between us. “Straight up?” The question sounded like a challenge.

“Sure.” I gulped down the whiskey and ignored the burn as it slid down my throat. Heat ignited low in my belly, though whether from the alcohol or Aidan’s scrutiny, I wasn’t sure.

He leaned against the kitchen sink and finished off his own drink before pouring another. “I’m sorry I blew up on you. I didn’t come here to make friends . . . to complicate things.”

“I’m a complication?”

His laughter was empty, cold as a morgue. “You’re about as complicated as they come.”

I stared at the bottom of my glass. “Why’s that?”

“You look at me as if you see right through me. It’s unsettling.”

“I don’t mean to unsettle you.”

“Consider me unsettled. Problem is, I think you’re using more than eyesight.” He finished the whiskey in one long gulp, and his eyes never broke contact with mine.

I gripped my glass. I’d rather have my teeth pulled than tell him how often I’d dreamed of him over the years. “Can I have another?”

He grabbed the bottle and moved toward me, and I saw him in my mind’s eye as he’d been in the drawing; bare chest, subtle muscles, hair narrowing down to his belly button . . . I stumbled back as he poured a refill.

“Thanks.” The smooth whiskey went down easier the second time.

“Did you dream about me too? Is that why you followed me on Halloween?”

I took another step back, but he advanced until the edge of the counter bit into my spine. “I didn’t.” The lie sounded weak, even to my own ears.

“I think you did. The way you looked at me, like you saw a ghost or something . . .” Brushing against me, he set his tumbler on the cool granite. “At first, I thought maybe you recognized me from somewhere, had seen the news reports—”

“No,” I interrupted, desperate to lead him away from the subject. “You were imagining things.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He gently pried the empty glass from my fingers and set it next to his. Nothing stood between us now; not even the last shred of my secret.

I held fast to it anyway, like a child unwilling to let go of a tattered teddy bear. “You can think whatever you want. Doesn’t make it true.”

“Doesn’t make it 
not 
true.” He gripped the counter, and his arms grazed my sides. “Did you dream of my wife’s murder?”

I hated myself for giving him false hope, especially in the face of such unveiled desperation. It drove him, I realized. I feared what else drove him. Justice?

Or vengeance?

Unable to speak, I resorted to shaking my head.

“Mackenzie, I’m begging you. If you know something—” He screwed his eyes shut and swallowed. “I found her a year ago . . . on my fucking birthday . . . just like we found Six tonight.”

I gaped at him, horrified. No wonder he’d gotten shit-faced on Halloween. My cheeks were damp with tears when he opened his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t see anything in my dreams about your wife.”

He brought his hands up and cradled my cheeks, and his thumbs brushed away my tears. “But you saw
me
.” Not a question but rather a confirmation of what I already suspected. He knew.

“Yeah, I saw you.”

We stood inches from each other, our lips parted and breaths growing shallow as the air between us shifted. My mouth veered up on its own—my body acting on pure instinct—and met him half way. His kiss was tentative at first, a soft tease that warmed my mouth and made me ache. He swept his fingers into my hair, and I moaned as he pulled me closer. His touch, his kiss . . . every part of him spoke to me, unleashed something inside me that couldn’t be caged. My knees buckled, and I clutched his shirt to keep from melting to the floor.