He would do his job. Two women, murdered. He would find out by whom, and why.
And then? And then he’d take one day at time, as he’d been doing for ten years.
Monday, February 22, 2:20 a.m.
Christy Lewis puckered her lips in a kiss, checking her lipstick and the rest of her reflection. The lipstick was new, just like the outfit she’d been saving for a night like this.
Her eyes were bright with anticipation. She’d never done anything like this before. Anything so naughtily tawdry. She’d met him in Shadowland, mingling in Ninth Circle. He’d said his name was John. She was pretty sure it wasn’t, just as she was pretty sure he wasn’t divorced. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was married with two point five kids and a dog. But she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.
He was in sales and traveled. She’d left the open invitation that if he was ever in the Twin Cities… Tonight he was. For just one night. The words “one-night stand” tickled her imagination. She’d never done one, not even in college when all of her friends did. She might not even do one tonight. It would depend on him, how he looked.
She didn’t expect him to look like his avatar. Who does? If we looked like our avatars, we’d have real lives.
But, if he was cute and clean, then why not? It had been a while since she’d had her watch wound. And men did it all the time. Her miserable ex-husband had. All the time.
So now it’s my turn.
And if “John” had a wife, two point five kids, and a dog? Christy’s shoulders sagged. She knew if he did, she couldn’t go through with it. She’d been the “injured party.”
But just maybe, he didn’t. She dropped her lipstick in her purse. Maybe he was telling the truth. And if not? She’d get out, drink a cup of coffee with someone who was flesh and bone. And then she’d come home alone, like she always did.
Finally. He’d thought she’d never leave. He watched Christy Lewis drive away, then pulled into her driveway. She lived out in the country, her nearest neighbor a quarter mile away. The location was logistically inconvenient to get to, but once they returned together later, there would be no need to tape her mouth closed as he’d done to the others. She could scream as long and loud as she wanted and no one would hear her.
And she would scream. Or maybe she’d be so terrified she’d go completely silent. One never knew how people would react when confronted with their worst fear. Either way, he had very high hopes for an intense experience.
He looked into his backseat with a smile. Christy Lewis’s worst fear was safely contained in a metal box with holes poked in the top. One couldn’t be too careful. He himself wasn’t terrified, but he wasn’t foolish either. He’d put the box in the house where it and its occupant could grow warm. The occupant of the box didn’t like the cold, hibernating this time of year. By the time he returned with Christy, the occupant of the box should be quite warm and quite… mobile.
He grabbed the box by its handle, gratified at the soft stirring that came from within. Excellent. Christy’s worst fear was waking. It would be hungry. Of course he’d planned for that. He grabbed a small cage from the floor, ignoring the high-pitched chatter.
He shivered deliciously, anticipating. This would be one to remember for a long time.
Monday, February 22, 2:40 a.m.
Brock dragged his forearm across his brow, clumsily wiping the sweat. “You good?”
Noah leaned against the ropes, panting. He was very nearly hollowed out. They’d set up the boxing ring in Brock’s basement years ago, along with free weights, punching bags, everything they needed for their own gym. Everything Noah needed to battle his way out of the bottle, away from the prying eyes of other cops at the department gym.
Noah had thrown more punches here than he wanted to count. It was a way to get through the gnawing need for a drink before it became a craving. Sometimes he used a punching bag, but when it got really bad, he needed something that punched back.
Brock had absorbed more of Noah’s punches than either of them wanted to count.
Noah exhaled slowly, considering. The gnawing need was still there. It was always there. But the worst of the craving had passed. “I think so.”
“Thank God,” Brock muttered. Spitting out his mouth guard, he straightened his back with a quiet groan and waggled his jaw. “You got me with that last one.”
Normally he and Brock were evenly matched, but tonight the craving had been especially vicious, its claws razor sharp. The dream woke him, left him shuddering in his bed like a frightened child. Then the craving had barreled out of the darkness like a freight train. It had been a long time since he’d come so close to giving in.
“I’m sorry.” Noah pulled at his gloves with his teeth, wincing when he got a good look at his cousin’s face. “I got your eye, too. God, Brock, I’m sorry. Dammit.”
“S’okay.” Brock tried to rip at his own gloves with his teeth, but stopped, grimacing from the pain in his jaw. “I’ve had worse. Not in a while, but I have had worse.”
“Shoulda’ kept your hands up.” Brock’s wife, Trina, rose from the basement stairs where she’d been sitting, hidden from their view. She reached over the ropes to pull off her husband’s gloves. “One of these days, you’re gonna really get creamed.”
Brock frowned down at her. “Don’t I get any sympathy?” he grumbled.
She lifted her chin to meet his eyes, unmoved. “I made you an ice pack.”
Noah almost smiled. Trina was one of his all-time favorite people. They’d gone through the academy together and he’d introduced her to Brock, toasted them at their wedding. He was godfather to two of their sons. A decorated cop, Trina was as close as any sister could ever have been. She knew all his faults and loved him anyway.
Trina turned, assessing Noah with eyes that missed very little. “Not that I mind watching two ripped guys without shirts duking it out in my basement, but what gives?”
Noah rubbed a towel over his face. “Bad dream,” he said shortly.
“Hm,” she said. She pulled a cold bottle of water from each of the deep pockets of her robe, tossing one to Noah. The other she pressed to Brock’s eye, which was already turning purple. “Ice pack for your jaw is upstairs. I put on a pot of coffee. Come.”
They followed her up to the kitchen table where Trina filled their cups and pressed an ice pack to Brock’s jaw. “Must have been one hell of a bad dream,” she said quietly.
“Yeah.” Noah dragged his palms down his face. “I caught a hanger tonight, but it was staged.” He knew he could tell these two anything and it would never leave the room. They were more than family, they were cops. “And it was the second one.”
“Not good,” Trina murmured. “You’re thinking serial?”
“Maybe. Jack and I went back to the station, combing the suicide reports to see if there were any more. Luckily there weren’t.”
Trina sipped at her coffee. “So what did you dream?”
Noah drew a breath. It was still so real. So disturbing. “That I was the hanger.”
“Upsetting,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you’ve had suicide dreams before and you’ve never messed up Brock’s face this bad.”
“It’s not that bad,” Brock mumbled and she patted his hand.
“Not from where I’m sitting, baby,” she said. She turned back to Noah. “So?”
“The victims had their eyes glued open. Grisly.” He shrugged. “In the dream I saw these dark eyes staring up at me.” Dark brown doe eyes, filled with pain.
“The victim’s?” she asked.
Noah shook his head, not wanting to say. “No. Just somebody I know.”
Brock’s eyes grew sharp. “Eve, then.”