She frowned and looked out the windshield once more. “How many others are we talking about?”
“While I dated you? Just a couple.”
Lucy slowed the car and pulled into a parking place in front of the post office. Just a couple. He said it as if it were okay. As if it didn’t completely crush her, no matter how much she didn’t want to be crushed.
“Over the course of the past month,” he continued as he unbuckled his belt, “about fifteen or sixteen.”
Lucy opened her car door and stepped out. “Fifteen or sixteen?” She couldn’t help but wonder how far he’d gone with the others. Had he kissed them like he’d kissed her? Had he shoved them against a wall and touched them all over?
He held his evidence collection equipment in one hand as they moved up the steps. “It was exhausting,” he said, holding the door open for her as if he were a gentleman.
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” He wasn’t tricking her for a second. He wasn’t a gentleman. “Poor guy. You wined and dined fifteen or sixteen women and lied to us all.”
“Some I just met for coffee and never saw again.”
And others he’d kissed like he hadn’t been able to get enough. Others like her. And though she would rather die than admit it out loud, she felt a tiny stab of jealousy for all those faceless others.
They walked into the old post office. Across from the rows of PO boxes, she set her purse on a table used for labeling. She would not ask how many he’d kissed and touched as he’d kissed and touched her. Not if it killed her. “And out of all those fifteen or sixteen, I’m the one you were most convinced was a serial killer.” She opened her purse and set her wallet on the table. “That’s brilliant police work.” Next she pulled out her brass knuckles and stun pen, then dug a little deeper. The more she thought of all those other women, the angrier she got. “I knew there was something wrong with you, but did I listen? No. I did not. I even made excuses for you trolling chat rooms and for all the really crappy e-mails you sent me.” She finally pulled out the special set of keys that always ended up in the bottom of her purse. “That spark to flame stuff was so lame. I mean, get a clue, Lucy.” She looked up, and Quinn took several steps backward. “What are you doing?”
“What do you have in your hand?” he asked, looking at her as if she held a cobra.
“The key. What else?” His gaze moved to her stun pen, and she smiled. Oh, that was tempting. “Are you afraid I’m going to zap you?”
“No. You wouldn’t get close enough.”
“Mmm hmm.” She held out the keys and made a little zapping sound through her teeth as she dropped them in his open palm.
“Funny. What’s your number?”
She told him, then turned to stuff everything else back into her purse.
“You’re the only one who’s complained about the e-mails.” He rocked back on his heels. “The other women liked them.”
“The other women were being kind to you. Believe me, I know hyperbolic crap when I read it.”
He chuckled and said over his shoulder, “That’s what I told Kurt when he wrote those e-mails. Although I’m pretty sure I didn’t say his crap was ‘hyperbolic.’”
He hadn’t even written the e-mails she’d spent so much energy trying to excuse and justify. Figured. She leaned her hip into the table and watched him move to her PO box. For some reason, the skin on the back of her neck and arms started to tingle as she waited for him to open it. A part of her wanted to tell him to stop. Not to open it. She didn’t want to see what was inside. Reading the sick rambling of a killer professing admiration for her work tainted what she’d always loved. Made it feel as if she were somehow responsible, although she knew she wasn’t. The thought of writing a mystery about a female serial killer no longer seemed like fiction. The lines between fact and fiction had blurred, and it was real now. She’d always loved her work, but sitting in her chair and writing seemed too horrific. The thought of never writing added a different shade of fear into the mix. She not only loved writing but it was also how she made her living. Without it, she was uniquely qualified to work in the fast-food industry.
In the span of three hours, her whole life had changed. Her emotions were raw, her mind numb with the weight of it. More than anything, she felt disoriented, as if she’d been on a five-day bender. She watched Quinn fit the key into the lock, and her hands tingled and her fingers got cold. She didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t look away. The small door swung open, and Lucy’s heart felt as if it were going to pound right out of her chest.
The box was empty. Not even a piece of junk mail. Lucy let out a breath. She couldn’t go through this every day, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. Maybe she’d heard the last from a sick woman. Maybe she could get her life back.
Quinn locked the PO box and moved toward her with that long and lean purposeful stride of his. A scowl wrinkled his dark brow, and he handed her the key. “Are you going to pass out?”
He raised a hand, as if he was going to touch her, but she stepped back out of his reach. “I’m fine.”
His hand fell to his side, but his scowl remained in place. “We’ll check again tomorrow.”
Without a word, Lucy took the key ring and dropped it into her purse. Tomorrow. She didn’t want to see him again tomorrow. Nor did she want to stand in the post office with her heart pounding out of her chest.
Together they walked from the post office, their shoulders inches apart as they moved down the steps. Lucy felt so alone that it might as well have been miles that separated them.
On the ride to her house neither spoke. In the past week, Lucy had fallen in love with a man who didn’t love her and had only dated her because he’d thought she was a serial killer. If that wasn’t crazy enough, she’d been contacted by the real killer, who claimed Lucy had taught her everything she knew about committing murder. The police thought Lucy somehow knew the killer, or at least had met her. Lucy had a feeling they were right. She’d always considered herself a strong person, but with each passing hour, as bits and pieces of those letters spun around in her head and the significance sank in, she was having a harder and harder time keeping it together. She feared she was going to dive headfirst into a freak-out, and she wished she had something to hang onto before she lost it. Someone to hold her tight and make her feel safe. Someone to tell her everything was going to be okay, even if it was a lie.
There was no one. Especially not Quinn. He was the last person to make her feel safe or the last man who could fill the emptiness that he had created.
Lucy pulled the car into the garage, and Quinn followed her into her house. “We’ll check again tomorrow,” he said as he reached for his duffle.
She didn’t want to go back to the post office. She didn’t want to stand around, watching and waiting. She walked to the kitchen window and looked out at Mrs. Riley’s fake tulips. Some of them were blue. She didn’t recall ever seeing real blue tulips, but who was she to question someone else’s reality when she felt as if she might truly lose her mind? “What’s going to happen now?” she asked, although she’d written enough books to have a very good idea. She knew that the police saw her as a link between them and a serial killer. The irony didn’t escape her.
“The letters get processed in the crime lab for prints and DNA. Kurt and I will pore over every word, looking for any clue or connection that will point us in the right direction. I think these letters are going to help us find her.” Lucy heard him walk across the room, and she felt, rather than saw, him come to stand directly behind her. “Do you still have my home phone and cell numbers?”
“Somewhere. Probably.”
“Will you call me if you need anything at all?”
“I don’t need anything. I’m fine.”