Memories of Us (20 page)

A framed photo of Everett.

He leaned forward and picked it up, holding it where they could both see it. In the photograph taken when he was three months old, a big toothless grin graced Everett’s mouth, his brown eyes wide. Thin swirls of russet hair covered his head. He wore a miniature baseball uniform bearing the Yankees logo.

“What a beautiful boy.” Celia traced a finger along the edge of the frame. She smiled up at him. “He has Kathleen’s coloring but he looks like you, his chin, around the eyes.”

“I wonder all the time, you know.” He rubbed a thumb over the glass, the old grief as new and raw as that day at Mercer, when the law-school dean had pulled him from class to tell him he was needed elsewhere, that his beloved son was dead. “What he’d be like now, what he’d grow up to be. God, I loved him. I looked forward to all the things we’d do together.”

His eyes burned and he blinked and cleared his throat roughly. She wouldn’t want to hear this. Hell, Kathleen hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t allowed him to talk about the baby in her presence, and she’d been Everett’s mother. Tom set the frame back in its space.

“McMillian.” Celia took his hand, pulled him into her loose embrace, her arms about his waist as she looked up at him. “You don’t have to put him away. He was your son. Of course you wonder. If you want to talk about him, I want to listen.”

He frowned, sifting his fingers through her hair. She couldn’t be real. She couldn’t be.

“Stop looking at me like that, McMillian,” she said, a hint of testiness entering her voice. “And stop using her to measure all women. It’s not fair.”

“I’m not—” He swallowed the words. Of course he was. He’d let his marriage, everything it had been, everything it hadn’t been, color his life. If Celia could look beyond the ghost of Bryan Turello to see the man he really was, he had to do the same for her. He rubbed her hair between his fingers, wrapped the shining strands around his hand. “You’re right.”

An impish smile lit her face. “Oh, McMillian, somehow I like the sound of those words on your lips.”

He laughed and hugged her close. She pulled away and took his hand. “Come on. I owe you a massage.”

No air.

Darkness pulsed.

Pain, searing, biting, burning.

Blood, staining soft floral sheets.

Tangled hair, silvery blonde, spilling over the side of the bed.

He was awake, heart pounding, chest heaving, a muffled groan ripped from his throat.

“McMillian?” Celia’s hands curved into his biceps and he knew she’d called him more than once, shaken him awake, shaken him free from the clutches of the nightmare.

He shuddered, the images heavy and real in his head. Dragging in a deep breath, he pulled up his knees and rested his elbows on them, letting his head fall forward and down. “God.”

“McMillian, are you all right?” Her voice shook.

He lifted his head and tried to focus on her. The lights blazed around them and dimly he remembered falling asleep with her sprawled over his chest after her massage had led to much, much more. Celia frowned at him, eyes dark with concern. Wearing his discarded shirt, she knelt by him on the bed.

He moistened dry lips. “I—”

The impressions seared through him once more, burning flashes of sensation and vision, sending pain crashing through the back of his skull. He leaned forward, yet another groan pulled from him.

“Jesus above, McMillian, you’re scaring me.” The bed shifted as she wrapped her arms around him. Some of the cold fear dissipated under her touch. She brushed her lips across his temple. “What’s wrong?”

He opened his eyes, the edges of her hair swinging at his peripheral vision.

Tangled hair, silvery blonde, spilling over the side of the bed.

Fighting the sensory overload, he shook his head and looked at her. “It’s you.”

Hurt flashed in her eyes and she recoiled. “What?”

“No, don’t.” He reached for her, trying to make sense of it all. He wouldn’t fail this time. Memories rolled through him—not turning back to wake Everett, the unease when Jessica had died, the phone call unanswered.

Nate Holton’s truck barreling through an intersection, moments before them, because he’d insisted on driving. A flash of Celia with blood on her face.

Breathing hard in uneven gasps, he rubbed a thumb over the tiny cut, still apparent on her chin. “My God, it’s you.”

He wouldn’t let it happen.

“What are you talking about?” She stared at him, eyes wide. “What did you see, McMillian?”

He could stop it this time…he wouldn’t let it happen to her…

“McMillian!” She gripped his chin and forced him to look at her. “What did you see?”

“I saw you.” He swallowed, his throat raw. “Your bedroom. You…there was blood, your hair falling over the side of the bed.” He closed his eyes. “You were dead.”

“You saw me dead?” Her voice trembled.

He opened his eyes, holding her gaze. “I won’t let it happen, Cee. I swear to God, not this time—”

“This time? What do you mean?” She stroked the side of his face, ran her fingers over his temple, gentling, soothing.

Listening. Looking at him with a soothing blend of concern and openness. She’d already given him the gift of talking about his son. Maybe with her he could release the door he kept slammed on the images and dreams, the flashes that had haunted and tormented him longer than he cared to remember.

“I didn’t go back for Everett. I turned back at the door, but I talked myself out of it.” The words tumbled over themselves in his desperation to explain. “I didn’t go back and he died. And Jessica…I didn’t answer the phone, but I felt it. I had a dream that night, the night she was killed. The only thing, the
only
thing, I’ve done right is keep us out of Nate Holton’s way. And I am not letting this, whatever it is I saw, happen to you.”

“It’s okay.” She smoothed the hair at his nape. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

Sweat chilled on his body. He rubbed a hand down his damp face. “You’re damn right it’s not.”

She rested her cheek on his shoulder, stroking his back. “So this happens before an incident?”

Finally getting his breathing under control, he glanced sideways at her. “I don’t even know what
this
is.”

Her lips feathered his shoulder. “My mother would have called it your Gift.”

“My Gift?” A harsh laugh wrung free of him. “More like a curse. You believe in this stuff?”

“Don’t you?”

He didn’t want to believe in it, didn’t want it in his life, period. He met her steady gaze again. “I don’t know.”

She picked up his hand, rubbed her thumb across his knuckles. “I’ll be careful, McMillian. And I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Damn straight she would. He intended to ensure it. He wouldn’t lose her now, wouldn’t lose her too.

“It’s not necessary for you to walk me in, McMillian.” Her low heels clicking on the steps to her back door, Celia smiled over her shoulder at Tom.

He lifted his eyebrows at her. Maybe she didn’t think it was necessary, but he didn’t plan to let her out of his sight. The images from his nightmare were still too fresh in his mind.

Trying to shake off the lingering uneasiness, he watched as she unlocked the door. “When are you going to actually call me Tom?”

She tossed a teasing glance at him. “Is it that important—”

Her voice stopped suddenly as she stepped inside and he went on the alert, vibrating with renewed tension. The fight-or-flight instinct poured adrenaline into his bloodstream. “What is it?”

“Shhh.”

He looked beyond her shoulder, through the dining room door. Nothing seemed out of place. The rooms smelled the same, still carried the relaxed air he associated with Celia’s home.

Celia reached for her sidearm.

The hair on his arms prickled, lifted on a wave of gooseflesh. “What?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Something’s just…off.”

With him at her side, she eased into the dining room and into the living room. Tom looked around. “Is anything out of place?”

“No.” She gave a rueful laugh. “It’s just not right in here.”

Foreboding trickled down his spine. “Let’s call the police.”

She shot him a look. He sighed. “Fine. I forget sometimes.” He waved a hand toward the hall and its stairs. “Lead the way, Investigator.”

Shadows hovered on the stairs, thanks to the shade at the landing’s window.

A foot on the bottom step, Tom paused and reached for Celia’s arm. “Wait.”

She looked back at him, inquiry in her eyes. He stared up the stairwell, flashes of his dream stabbing into him. Waves of ice flowed over him. He tightened his hold on her arm. “Just wait.”

They stood still and Tom strained his ears. Nothing moved overhead. The clock on the small table at the landing ticked in the silence.

“Come on,” she whispered.

He tugged her back. “I’m going first.”

“McMillian, I’m the one with the gun. I think I should go first.”

With the disquiet sitting like a hard knot in his gut and the nightmarish images lingering in his brain, he wasn’t going to argue. He would be the first one up those stairs. He stepped past her. “Humor me.”

With their backs to the wall, they slipped up the stairs. He was aware of Celia’s quiet tension behind him. Her bedroom door stood ajar, dim light spilling into the hall.

A vaguely familiar odor wafted over him. Tom tensed, frowning. Where had he…?

“Oh my God.” Celia pushed past him and he made a grab for her.

“Celia, wait—”

“Let me go.” Urgency invaded her voice. “That smell? That’s blood, McMillian.”

He put himself between her and the door. “I’ll check it out. Stay here.”

Not waiting for her answer, he stepped sideways to the door. The cloying scent grew stronger. Flares of the burning pain from his dream seared through him. Without touching the door, he looked inside the room.

The slender body lay across the bed, one wrist bound to the headboard with a tie—
his
tie, the blue silk one Celia had laughingly stripped from him Friday night. Her head was thrown back, silvery blonde hair falling over the side of the bed. Blood trickled from her parted lips.

Tom’s stomach clenched, plummeted.

Cicely.

She looked like Celia. If he hadn’t known she was behind him, he’d have thought—

Oh, God.
Celia
.

He spun, putting his body between her and the room, trying to stop her from seeing.

She screamed.

“No.” He caught her in his arms, felt her body sag as her knees gave. He attempted to turn her face into his shoulder. Waves of incredible pain that wasn’t his washed over him, swamping him, and he closed his eyes, holding her. “Don’t look, Cee.”

“No,” she moaned, fighting against his arms, sinking further against him, and he felt her tearing sobs vibrate from her body into his. “No, no,
no
…”

At the foot of the stairs, Tom tried to focus on the city police department’s young detective. He pulled his gaze from Celia, sitting on the edge of the couch, holding her elbows, staring straight ahead. “Cicely St. John. She owns the shop next door and lives in the other half of the house. She’s Celia’s sister.”

A camera flash flared above them.

Deep voices came from the back of the house and Mark Cook strode through from the kitchen. He slanted a concerned glance at Celia, but didn’t approach her. Instead, he joined Tom and Detective Phillips. “What happened?”

Tom pitched his voice low. “I brought Celia home this morning and we found her.”

Cook looked at Phillips. “What’s it look like to you?”

“The scene appears staged.” Phillips spoke in a whisper. “Come take a look.”

With a glance back at Celia, Tom followed the two men upstairs.

“How is she?” Cook murmured.

“She wants to be left alone.” Tom shook his head, remembering the way Celia had smothered her sobs and pulled away from him, refusing further contact while they waited for the police to arrive. Cold worry had settled in him as she rebuffed him and any attempt he made at comfort. “In shock, I think.”

In the bedroom, Cicely’s nude body remained on Celia’s bed. A crime scene photographer continued taking an extensive record of the scene. From the door, Tom looked around as the two police officers studied the body. Cicely’s clothing—jeans, camisole, sandals, brief panties—lay scattered on the floor. A couple of unopened condoms graced the nightstand. The bottle of scented oil and unboxed dildo stood beside them.

He directed his attention to Phillips. “You said it looked staged.”

Cook and Phillips exchanged a look.

“It doesn’t look natural.” Phillips waved toward the bed. “The clothing is too arranged than if she’d just stripped it off. The body is posed, probably after she was killed.”

“The toys and the condoms?” Cook pointed at the table. “We’re supposed to jump to a conclusion from those, that this is all about some kind of kinky sex game gone wrong.”

Phillips frowned. “If this isn’t her side of the duplex, why is her body here?”

“Because it’s not supposed to be her,” Tom said slowly, a shudder working through him. “It’s supposed to be Celia.”

Eyebrows lifted, Phillips looked at him in open inquiry.

“She borrowed Celia’s truck last night. Her car is in the shop.”

“Someone looking for St. John sees the sister come home, driving St. John’s vehicle.” Cook sighed and glanced toward the bed. “They favor enough to be twins.”

“Mistaken identity,” Phillips said. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”

“And if this is supposed to be St. John and we’re supposed to think it’s a little rough sex that went overboard…” Cook trailed off and fixed Tom with a look. “Then we’re supposed to think you did it, Counselor.”

Foreboding settled over Tom and he turned toward Cicely’s still form. “We have to let him think it’s Celia.”

“What?” Phillips frowned.

“If he thinks Celia is dead and I’m under suspicion, if he thinks he’s gotten away with it…”

“It could buy us some time,” Cook finished for him.

Tom met the other man’s astute gray eyes. “And it could keep Celia safe until we find the bastard.”

She couldn’t get the memory out of her head.

Celia gripped her father’s uniform button, the chain’s links biting into her skin with the pressure.

Cicely’s eyes, open, staring, all the life and joy gone from them.

Cicely, dead.

In
her
bed. In
her
place.

She shuddered. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. It was a dream, a nightmare, had to be. Because if Cicely was gone, she had no one left. She was alone.

“Celia, baby.” McMillian knelt before her and reached for her hands. Pain darkened his eyes, and disconnected, she realized he was hurting for her, sharing her agony. He rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles. “Cook is going to take you to my place.”

“No.” She shook her head, trying to pull her thoughts together. It was important she stay here, be where Cicely was. If she went, Cicely would be all alone, no one left who loved her. She couldn’t do that to her sister. “I can’t leave her.”

“I need you to, Cee.” He turned his head, pressing his lips against the inside of her wrist. “There’s nothing you can do here and I need to know you’re safe.”

“She’s dead.” The words slipped from her, even as unshed tears remained frozen in her throat. The sobs had shaken her earlier, tearing from her throat, but the tears had refused to come. “In my place. Because of me.”

He closed his eyes, brought her palm to his cheek. “Not because of you, baby. You didn’t cause this.”

Didn’t he understand? “It was supposed to be me. If she hadn’t been in my truck, if I’d been here—”

“No.” A visible spasm shook his shoulders. “Don’t say that.”

She bit her lip, the coppery taste of blood hitting her tongue. “I wish I had been.”

His grip on her hands tightened to a painful level and he turned tortured eyes to hers. “Celia, don’t do this. I’m sorry she’s dead, I know you’re hurting, but I can’t be sorry you’re alive, baby. I can’t.”

She pulled her hands free. “You want me to leave her here, alone.”

His eyes closed again. “I want you safe.”

Her throat ached. “But—”

“We don’t have a lot of time, St. John.” Cook spoke from the doorway, his voice quiet. He cleared his throat, sympathy and apology plain on his face. “The news people will have already picked up the call on the scanner and they’ll be on the way. We need to get you out of here.”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t get her mind straight enough to make a decision.

“Baby, please.” McMillian’s voice cracked. “Do this for me.”

Tom McMillian, with his composure shaken, sounding anything but confident? Do it for him? She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.

“Cook, you don’t have to stay.” Celia wrapped her arms over her midriff and clasped her elbows. She was cold, a deep-down iciness she couldn’t shake. Even the sunlight spilling in through the tall windows in McMillian’s living room couldn’t warm her. Instead, it mocked her with the ordinariness of the weather. Outside, the day was bright, sunny, cheerful. People would be going on with their lives.

She didn’t have that luxury today.

“It might be a good idea if I hang around.”

She dragged a hand through her hair, nails raking her scalp. “I really don’t want you here, okay? I need to be by myself.”

He sighed. “I tell you what—I’ll go, but just to the car. I’ll park down the street. That way I’m here, but I’m not.”

She nodded, grateful that he understood how close to falling apart she was, that he wouldn’t stay to watch it happen. “I can handle that.”

He jerked his head toward the door. “Lock up behind me.”

Once the heavy door was closed behind him, she trailed back to the living room. Their files and notes from the night before remained stacked on the coffee table. She sank to the floor and traced a finger over a page filled with McMillian’s strong handwriting.

Memories assailed her, McMillian thrashing about in the throes of his nightmare, swearing he’d keep her safe.

Only his nightmare had been reality.

The danger he’d thought threatened her had taken Cicely instead.

Why?

Her gaze fell on the paperwork once more. The answer lay within this case. She merely had to find it.

For Cicely’s sake.

“So the question is, why would someone want Ms. St. John dead?” Phillips crossed his arms over his chest. “And why would they want us to think you did it?”

Tom glanced at Tick Calvert. The three were standing in Celia’s kitchen, watching the crime scene technicians come and go from upstairs and the media beginning to mill outside the house. “We got too close, made somebody nervous.”

Tick nodded. “Someone who thought that if St. John was out of the way and you were tied up trying to clear yourself, it would take the heat of the Grady case off them.”

He remembered Celia’s hoarse scream, her sobs, when she’d glimpsed her sister’s body, the way she’d folded in on herself, the horror in her eyes. Fury flashed through him, tightening his chest. He wanted to put his fist through something.

Or into Alton Baker’s face.

“It’s Baker,” he said, having to unclench his jaw to force the words out.

Phillips looked surprised. “The judge?”

Tick watched him with a measuring expression. “Why do you think so?”

“He had a connection to Jessica, he was involved in those adoptions and he didn’t like us questioning him about it.” Tom rubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to still the urge to strike out. The son of a bitch had attempted to take Celia from him, permanently, had planned a horrific death for her. And he’d succeeded in destroying what Celia loved most. “The grand-jury subpoena could have put him over the edge.”

Hands curled around the tile facing, Tick leaned against the counter. “Odds are, if he’s involved in the baby ring and Grady’s murder, that puts him solidly in the middle of the Dixie Mafia organization around here. And, odds are, he didn’t carry out the murder himself. He’d have someone else do it, like having Blanton courier that baby. The challenge is making the connection between the killer and Baker.”

Tom glared at him. “I’ll make your connection.”

He’d beat it out of the son of a bitch if he had to. Tear him apart, to make sure he never threatened Celia, in any way, ever again.

A subdued grin quirked at Tick’s mouth. “I understand how you feel, Tom, honest to God, I do, but we want to be able to put him away. If you go off the deep end, hell’ll freeze over before we get a chance.”

Phillips scratched his temple. “We need to move fast on this investigation. We’re only going to be able to keep the truth about Ms. St. John a secret for so long.”

A Coney PD officer slipped in through the back door, a harassed expression on his face. He waved a hand at the media trucks from two local affiliate stations outside. “Damn vultures. We talked to the neighbors on both sides of the street, Detective. Nobody heard or saw nothing.”

Phillips released a long, slow breath. “I sure as hell hope this guy made a mistake and the forensics turn up something.”

“They always mess up somewhere, Phillips.” Tick clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Trust me. Sometimes it just takes us longer than others to find the mistake.”

“Make it sooner rather than later.” Tom shoved his hands in his pockets.

Tick’s cell phone rang and he pulled it from his belt. “Calvert. Are you sure?” He glanced at Tom, excitement glinting in his dark brown eyes. “Listen, fax that over to the station, will you? I might need it to get a court order. Thanks.”

He returned his phone to its clip, a grin curving his mouth.

Tom threw out his hands in frustration. “What?”

Tick’s grin widened. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

Phillips gestured toward the window and the reporters outside. “What about them?”

“Got it covered.” Tick tugged his cuffs free. “Let’s make it look good, Counselor.”

Once outside, Tom’s hands cuffed before him with his suit jacket half-tossed over them and Tick’s hand on his arm, the handful of reporters rushed to the flimsy barrier of yellow crime scene tape. A barrage of questions assaulted them.

“Is it true Ms. St. John was murdered?”

“How long had she worked with the district attorney’s office?”

“Is Mr. McMillian under arrest?”

“Can you tell us anything, Investigator?”

“Why is Chandler County’s sheriff’s office assisting with this case?”

Tick’s expression didn’t change. “No comment.”

At the unmarked unit, he pulled the passenger door open and shielded Tom’s head as he pushed him down into the seat. Ignoring the clamoring reporters, he crossed to the driver’s side. A city officer waved him into traffic.

Tick pulled onto the quiet side street. “We just put a dent in your professional reputation.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Tom stared forward, his jaw aching from being clenched repeatedly. Rage at Alton Baker continued to pulse along his nerves. “Nothing is more important than Celia and keeping her safe.”

He caught the surprise in the glance Tick sent his way. The investigator’s reaction didn’t matter, either. The truth of what he’d said sank into his consciousness.
Nothing
was more important than Celia. Not his past, not his reputation, not his career.

She was everything.

The emotion had sneaked up on him, disguised as wanting and desire, and somehow in the past few days, maybe even the past weeks and months, she’d wound herself around his soul.

Tick cleared his throat. “There was tissue under one of Jessica Grady’s fingernails. Ford pulled a DNA sample from it.”

Tom looked at him, trying to make the transition from thinking about his feelings for Celia to focusing on the investigative process. “And?”