Epiphany (Legacy of Payne) (11 page)

He jerked away with a groan, long before my craving could be satisfied, though his face still hovered close to mine. The realization that I’d put the spark in his eyes sent thrilling pulses to every nerve in my body. Our foreheads came together as our breathing returned to normal. I closed my eyes, wishing the moment would never end.

“That was a dumb move,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

My eyes popped open, and the moment fizzled and died when he pulled away completely. Though a mere couple of feet separated us, I felt as if he’d distanced himself by miles.

“You don’t deserve to be jerked around by a screw-up like me.”

I blinked. My legs were like jelly and my insides alive with want and need, but he seemed to be in retreat-mode. “I wanted it as much as you did, Aidan.”

“That’s what scares me.”

“Because you can’t move on?” I dreaded the answer but waited for it anyway.

One never came. He cordoned himself off, and the moat between us widened, drawbridge lying in tattered pieces in the trenches. Hurt sliced open the scars on my heart.

“Allowing you to get caught up in my life is unforgivable,” he said. “I only had one thing on my mind when I came here.”

“Justice.” Something in his eyes told me I’d used the wrong word.

“Finding him . . . it’s all I’ve thought about for the past year.” He drew in an uneven breath. “It’s late, Mackenzie.” He hesitated before grabbing my hand. My pulse thundered in my ears, and I wondered if he could feel it where our hands touched as he led me downstairs.

We passed his bedroom and stopped in front of another door. He pushed it open, revealing a second bedroom. “Stay tonight?”

I couldn’t have denied him if I’d wanted to.

* * *
 

I awoke the next morning to raised voices drifting down the staircase. Male voices. I dressed quickly and crept into the hall, pausing at the bottom of the stairs as their words grew louder.

“I already told you all I know. I thought we covered this last night,” I heard Aidan say, a hint of impatience in his tone.

“From where I’m standing, we didn’t cover much of anything.” That sounded like the sheriff. “I read the file on your wife’s murder. Did he send you another note? Is that how you found Ms. Hunsaker?”

“No, there wasn’t a note.”

“Aidan, if you’re withholding evidence—”

“I turned everything I had over to the police in Boise, didn’t I? And you were the first person I talked to when I arrived here in town. Do you really think I’d withhold evidence?”

“Yes, I think you would, if it suited your agenda.”

“My only agenda is to find the asshole that killed Deb, a job your department has failed to do.”

“So you’re a cop now? Last I checked journalism was your field.” Thick silence filled the air. After a moment I heard the sheriff add, “And according to your colleagues, you were a ticking time bomb after your wife’s murder. Lost all objectivity, they said. Caused an uproar that reached all levels of law enforcement and the media.”

“Get out.”

“Your refusal to cooperate has left me no choice. You’re coming in for questioning.”

“Like hell I am.” Aidan’s voice boomed down the stairwell. I jumped when the front door banged against the wall. “Get out of my house!”

Without thinking, I rushed up the stairs and blurted, “Wait!” Both men stared—the sheriff with interest, and Aidan with surprise. I tore my eyes from his and gave McFayden my full attention. “
I’m
 the one you should be interrogating. Aidan didn’t know where to find Six . . . I did.”

The sheriff tilted his head. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“You don’t have to tell him anything.” Aidan stepped forward, his shoulders rigid. “We already told him what we know. He was just leaving.”

I shook my head. “No, if it’ll help them find Six’s killer, then I need to do this.” I closed my eyes, and the image of her tortured body knifed my heart. I needed to come clean, not only for Six, but for Aidan. If he found the Hangman before the police did . . . I couldn’t bear to think of the outcome. “I knew where to find Six because I saw it in a dream.”

I expected the sheriff’s incredulous expression, and he didn’t disappoint. “I don’t have time for this Silvia Browne-type of psychic babble, Ms. Hill. Now, we’ll try this one more time before I drag both of you in.”

“I never said I was psychic, and you don’t have to drag me anywhere.” I paused, distracted by the twitch in Aidan’s jaw. “I’ll cooperate, but I’m telling you the truth. I dreamed of the rock shelter, and I saw him take Six up there.” I told McFayden all the gory details of the dream, and when I finished recounting how we’d found her hanging, I was on the verge of throwing up.

“You can’t give me a description of the guy? Nothing on the vehicle?” he asked.

I was shocked he appeared to believe me or at least considered I was telling the truth. “No.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“Point taken.” The sheriff sighed. “You have my card. If you think of anything else—”

“I’ll call you,” I said.

“Can’t say I buy in to this psychic stuff, but I’ll keep an open mind. I think we’ve established how much we all want this monster off the streets.” McFayden’s attention returned to Aidan. “You’ve got quite the reputation as a damn good investigative reporter. I don’t mind getting help from the public on cases, never have. What I do mind is personal investment.” He pointed a finger at Aidan. “Don’t do anything stupid, son. Last thing we need is for this guy to go free because of a technicality.”

Aidan remained silent. I didn’t think he had any intention of letting his wife’s killer get away. I feared he wouldn’t rest until the Hangman was bagged and tagged. The sheriff seemed to pick up on the same vibe.

“Keep your hands clean, Aidan.” McFayden left, leaving the door open.

A cool breeze drifted in, and the azure sky was a cloudless canvas. What a freaking disparity from last night. The glaring sunshine was a slap in the face. I shut the door, unable to confront the blue sky any longer, and glanced at Aidan. Neither of us seemed inclined to move.

He stood massaging the back of his neck, all the while staring at me as if he wasn’t sure what to say. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.” Is this what we’d been reduced to—clipped, meaningless conversation to fill the silence? “And thanks for the T-shirt.” He’d loaned me one to sleep in, and the memory of how wonderful it smelled, soft against my skin, haunted me. Now, as the morning highlighted everything that had happened, our explosive kiss sat like the proverbial elephant in the room.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I was getting ready to fix something when McFayden showed up.” His hair was damp from showering, and several runaway strands had ideas of their own, despite his obvious effort to comb them in place.

“I should get home, but thanks for the offer.”

He sighed, and I figured he felt the awkwardness between us too. “Mackenzie, about last night—”

“If you’re going to apologize again, I’d rather you didn’t.” I grabbed my jacket. “I get it, I do. You don’t need complications.”

He pulled out my keys and stepped closer. “I don’t think you do get it. I might not 
want
 complications, but I can’t control what’s happened.” Worry etched across his face. “I care about you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Or worse.
 He didn’t have to say the words; I heard the message loud and clear. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. “I’ll be careful.”

“What if careful isn’t enough?”

“It’ll have to be.”

“Are you refusing to leave town because of me?”

“There are several reasons.” I avoided his keen stare. “I really should get going.”

“At least let me see you home.”

“All right, but how will you get back?” I halted. “Now that I think about it, how did you get to my apartment last night? Your car is sitting in your garage.”

“I walked.” He grabbed his jacket and ushered me through the door.

“Why?”

“Less questions that way. Idaho plates, remember?”

I did remember, and with startling clarity, I remembered something else. As we drove to my apartment, the sheriff’s words jabbed at me. He’d said Aidan was a damn good investigative reporter. A reporter . . . from Boise. Another puzzle piece shifted, and I wondered if Aidan and the reporter I’d read about—A.J. Payne—were one and the same.

I spent the next two days pretending the yellow tape next door didn’t exist. Six would come barreling into my apartment any minute now, flaunting some outrageous outfit she wanted me to wear. She’d talk me into going out again, give another push toward Brad . . . probably tell me to make a play for Aidan.

But Six wasn’t going to do any of those things. As each minute crept forward, she never appeared. Acceptance nagged me with every breath. She was
gone
.

Dead.

Lying on a cold slab somewhere in the dark recesses of the morgue. The medical examiner had probably sliced her open for an autopsy already. I thought of all this with the same mechanical detachment I’d experienced a few weeks ago when I’d thrown my life down the garbage disposal.

I padded into the kitchen to make coffee. Her memorial service was a couple hours away, and I still had to find something suitably grievous to wear, as if wearing black could convey my grief.

As the coffee brewed, my drawings of Aidan called to me. To say he served as a distraction was an understatement. Once again my eyes lowered to the necklace he wore in the one sketch. What did the gold chain mean to him? He knew about my dreams now, but I wasn’t about to bring up these drawings.

Maybe I could find answers another way. I sat down with my laptop and typed in a name—the one I suspected he’d used as a byline for the
Idaho Statesman.
The first article Google brought up confirmed my suspicions; it reported on his wife’s murder and included a picture of them together. Unlike the other victims, she hadn’t worked in a bar. She’d been a teacher, and a pretty one at that. Beautiful really. Enviably elegant. Somehow I’d expected his type to be of the tall and blond variety—a cliché, I know—but that’s what I thought of when I looked at him. His dark looks seemed to attract the type. I didn’t 
like 
to think about him with anyone, but the thought had been there nonetheless.

Deborah Payne hadn’t been blond. In fact, her hair hadn’t been much lighter than my own ebony locks. She’d had blue eyes, a shade so light they were almost gray. I scanned the article, becoming more distressed the further I read. She’d been raped and tortured. Just like Six. Hanged. Just like Six.

And Aidan had found her like that. His own wife; the woman he’d obviously loved very much. Now he was out for blood, and I didn’t have to guess at or even dream of the vengeance he craved. The certainty of it sat in my gut.

A knock on the door disrupted my thoughts. I closed my laptop in case it was Aidan. He’d called to check on me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up on my doorstep. Mom had also called, and unlike all the other times, I’d finally answered. I’d had a difficult time convincing her I was safe in Watcher’s Point. She’d seen the latest news reports. Thank God she had no idea how close Six and I had been . . . or that I’d been the one to find her. She’d no doubt send Marcus and Micah to drag me back home, by the hair if necessary.

I pulled the door open and tensed at the sight of Judd McFayden. “What can I do for you, Deputy?” I asked coolly, still put off by his lack of help in finding Six after she’d gone missing.

“There’s no need to be so formal. I’m not on duty. May I come in?”

Giving in to curiosity, I opened the door wide and gestured for him to enter. His dark gaze roamed around my tiny apartment, touching on the old couch, the small television, and the ancient coffee table that was beyond repair. The apartment had come with the sparse furnishings, and considering how desperate I’d been to find a place on such short notice, I didn’t mind the less than stellar décor or furniture. Sure beat sitting on the floor.

“Would you like some coffee?” The promise of caffeine wafted in from the kitchen. No way could I face Six’s memorial later without a large dose of my personal brand of lifeblood. Nightmares had ensured sleepless nights. No murders; just some creepy cabin I couldn’t erase from my mind. I’d sketched it several times yesterday, never satisfied with the outcome. Something was off. I hadn’t gotten the surrounding woods right, hadn’t drawn the windows correctly. There was water nearby, though I couldn’t see that clearly either.

“Coffee sounds good, thank you.” Judd followed me into the kitchen, and as I poured two cups, adding cream and sugar to his upon instruction, I wondered why he’d come by. My heart lurched in fear and in hope. What if they’d found a lead on the killer? I handed him a mug, and we each took a mismatched seat at my kitchen table. My sketches of Aidan covered the surface, and his gorgeous eyes peered up from the paper.

“Sorry, let me get these out of your way.” 
Out of the way of your prying eyes.

“I heard you were an artist.”

I almost snorted. “I’m sure you’ve heard your fair share of gossip about me, Deputy. Christie has no doubt filled you in.”

“You can call me Judd.”

I raised my brows but refrained from saying anything.

“I came to apologize. I should have done more. I should have taken your report seriously.”

“You guys went to high school together, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Yeah. I knew her back then, but we didn’t hang out with the same people.”

Uncomfortable silence settled over us. What did he want me to say? That it was okay? Six’s murder would never be okay. Neither would his refusal to file something as simple as a missing persons report.

“I need to get ready for her memorial service. I appreciate you stopping by,” I said, not entirely understanding my need to remain polite. He’d dropped the ball, and now my friend was dead. There was no sugarcoating that.

“Sure, no problem. Before I go though, I was wondering . . . about what you told my dad. You dreamed of where to find her?”