"It still bothers me that the killer staged the old armory, suggesting there's a tie to the death of your family and the murder of Dunhill. Have you thought about the link?"
He shook his head, pulling a hand through his dark waves in frustration. "That's been bugging me, too. I was always told police had a hand in the killings, some kind of botched police raid on the wrong house. But no charges were ever filed. Any way for you to check that out? I've blocked so much from my memory."
"I've got an old family friend checking on that one. He was a partner to my father. Sam's got a pretty long memory. Maybe something will turn up."
Christian's sad gaze drifted toward the crackling fire, his mind clearly rooted in his past. With his chin resting on the back of his hand, his expression grew more solemn.
"What's the matter? Did you think of something?" she prodded.
After a long moment of silence, he finally confided in her. "You were right about Fiona being gone. And it's not like her to run from a fight." The fire flickered in his eyes. "I just found out how little I know about her. I've been so wrapped up in my own misery, I forgot how much she's done for me."
Coaxed by his words, she turned her thoughts to the memory of her father. He had made parenting look effortless. At least, that's how she chose to remember him.
As a bulletproof teen, she believed he would be with her forever. Now all that remained was the foundation of love he'd built for her.
"No matter how all this turns out, Christian, it's important that you always remember that." It was all she could say to comfort him.
Vinnie stepped quietly up the stairs, then knocked on Logan's bedroom door. The heavy tray in his hands carried the man's dinner. If everything wasn't perfect, Logan would unleash on him. These days, it didn't take much to set him off.
"Come in." The muffled directive finally came.
"I thought you might like some dinner." Vinnie walked across the room to set the tray down on a table.
The smell of sex mingled with another scent he knew well. Blood stained the sheets, confirming his suspicions that Krueger's woman had borne the brunt of Logan's hostility. Hoping she'd weather the storm, he had sent her to the master suite to appease Logan after the disappointing trip to the pretty detective's house.
Now her clothes were strewn about the room, stripped from her in his apparent frenzy. She lay naked beneath the stained sheets of the man's bed, bruised and bloodied. Her tears signaled her complete surrender.
"If you're done, I can feed her downstairs, let you have your privacy," he offered. Logan stared at him, his expression unreadable. Vinnie swallowed hard, finding it difficult to suppress his ragged breath. "Or can I interest you in another diversion? Whatever you like, sir."
"There's only one sport that interests me, Vin." Rage surged, coloring the man's skin. "Nothing pisses me off more than a botched mission! You know that."
Vinnie saw his fury as clearly as if the man were a kettle on a stovetop, on the brink of boiling over. He'd seen it before, at the detective's house. Logan tore the place apart after he'd found the woman packed and gone, the police cruisers nowhere in sight.
But just as quickly as the anger swelled, it subsided with Logan's insane laughter. The man's mood swings were getting worse. His amusement only twitched Vinnie's flesh. And the woman at Logan's side clutched the bedsheet to her bare breasts, cowering from his twisted brand of humor.
"I think I know just how to jump-start this hunt. And that bitch won't be able to refuse. She's gonna give herself to me, Vinnie. Just like all women do, eventually"
He stroked the head of the woman lying next to him. Cruelty dominated his eyes. With the tip of his tongue, he licked the blood from the corner of her mouth, savoring its taste. "I think a little divine intervention is in order."
With a relieved smirk, Vinnie waited for his orders.
During their simple dinner of sandwiches, Christian found himself telling Raven about an area of the mansion that he'd yet to explore. He had nearly forgotten about it until she prompted his memory, delving into Fiona's past. Now he shoved the east wing attic door open, getting his bearings with a flashlight.
The air felt thick with the smell of dust. He flipped the light switch. Only on rare occasions had he been in this particular storage space, and only when accompanied by Fiona herself. Without her, he felt like such an interloper into her past. Cardboard boxes, a rack of old clothes wrapped in plastic, and a couple of wooden trunks marginally filled the space.
"I hope you're not allergic to dust. The air is a little stale," he warned. Once he determined the layout, he lowered his hand to his guest, steadying her as she took the last step up the ladder.
"This place is larger than my whole house." Raven stood beside him. Her eyes peered through the pale light. "But considering some of the things I've got in my attic, she's not much of a packrat."
"She told me once that these were the things she couldn't part with, too many memories."
Raven wandered to the clothes rack. "Hey, put that flashlight to good use. Shed some light on these clothes." She slid the hangers apart for a better view once he directed the beam of light. "God, she was a tiny little thing. Check out the size of this dress."
Holding up a white beaded evening gown, she wedged the wooden hangar under her chin. "The only time I could've fit into this was when I was a teenager."
"I bet you'd look amazing in an evening gown." He smiled. Even in this light, he knew she blushed. Normally, the dark space would have raised his blood pressure, but with Raven along, he felt comfortable.
"Do you think they make a thigh holster for my Glock, one that wouldn't break the line of this gown? Just another makeover challenge, I suppose."
She opened the clasp of the beaded bag that had been stored with the gown.
"Oh, look. This evening bag still has a ticket stub for— Can I have the light, please." She grasped the flashlight he handed her, then squinted to read the small print. "La Bohème. And judging by the date on this, she'd been a teenager. Wow. Must've been some performance. The attic is like one big album of memories."
Once again, Christian realized how little he knew the woman who'd saved his life from the ruin it might have become. Raven helped him sift through the boxes and trunks, opening one after the other. With every revelation, he became more reticent, letting her fill the gap in conversation.
"Hey, Christian. This one is locked. You have a key? Maybe it's just stuck." She tugged at the lid without success.
"Here. Let me try this." In his hand, he held an old metal shoehorn that he'd found.
Raven directed the light over his shoulder as he wedged the piece of metal between the trunk and its lock. After a couple of attempts, he eventually pried it open. Propping the lid against the wall, he gazed inside. His hands leafed through old papers and photographs until. . .
"Oh, my God," he exclaimed. "What the hell is this?"
Father Antonio neared the end of his time in the confessional. It had passed quickly, considering this was his first day back after administrative leave. The archdiocese had offered him relief from his regular duties, but the idle time only made him remember. It felt good to be a contributing member of this community once again.
Between parishioners partaking of his service, he distracted himself with the rosary in his hand. To ensure the anonymity of his congregation, only a small night light lit the inside of his compartment. Accustomed to the dark, he relied on his sense of touch, rolling the smooth black beads between his fingers. His whispered prayers kept the deathly grimace of Mickey Blair at bay. It gave him strength to know that in the small space of the confessional, God kept him company.