Then he heard a stumble and a female hiss the bizarre word, “Frak.”
He came to his feet silently, instantly alert, and his gaze swung to the trail where the noise was coming from. His hand went to the gun in the holster clipped to the side of his belt. It was his service weapon. He wasn’t on duty but he always wore it. His mountain town of Carnal, Colorado might have recently emerged out from under a small town tyrant’s thumb but that didn’t mean it was safe.
He blinked when she came into view, her head down, the top of her hair covered in a knit cap the color he couldn’t tell in the moonlight. Her eyes were to her feet as she stomped through the snow to get to the clearing.
As if sensing him, her head shot up and when she saw him, she stopped so abruptly, her body rocked.
Chace stared at her.
He knew her.
Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck?
He said not one word. It was fucking two in the fucking morning in the freezing cold in the middle of nowhere that just happened to be the scene of an ugly, bloody murder. And she was there. He didn’t know what to say because he didn’t know whether to be pissed or seriously fucking pissed.
She said not one word either. Then again, she was known for being quiet and not just because it was an occupational hazard, seeing as she was the town’s librarian.
Surprisingly, she broke their stare but she did it mumbling, “Uh…”
At that sound, Chace decided to be seriously fucking pissed.
“What the fuck?” he asked.
“Um… uh, Detective Keaton,” she replied then said not another word but her eyes were locked to him. Her long, sleek hair flowing out from under her cap was a midnight shadow against her light, puffy vest and the scarf wound around her neck. Her face was pale in the moonlight.
And, fuck him, he liked her voice. He’d heard it before, not often but he’d heard it. And he’d liked it the other times too. Quiet, melodious, like a fucking song.
Yeah, he liked it. A fuck of a lot.
Just not right then even if it was the first time she’d uttered his name. Or one of his names. The name he’d prefer she say was his first and he’d like to hear her say it when she was on her back, her rounded body under his, his cock inside her and he’d just made her come.
Something he’d never have.
This reminded him he was seriously fucking pissed.
So he repeated, “What the fuck?”
“I… uh –”
“Spit it out, Miz Goodknight. What the fuck are you doin’ in Harker’s Wood, at the scene of a murder at two in the fucking morning?”
“Well, uh…” Her head tipped to the side and her eyes remained on him. “What are you doing here?”
“My wife was murdered here,” he replied instantly, tersely and with obvious anger and immediately wished he didn’t. This was because he watched her face flinch at the same time she took a step back.
It took her a moment to call it up but she did. She straightened her spine and whispered, “I’m sorry,” he watched her swallow, “I’m so sorry about Misty, Detective Keaton.”
“No one’s sorry about Misty,” he returned.
For some reason he was unable to stop himself from being an asshole and he watched as she scrunched her nose, another flinch. This one cute.
Really cute.
Fuck him.
But he was right. No one in town was sorry his wife was dead. Not even, if he dug down deep, Chace. He wouldn’t have wanted that for her, not that. Not even if they just filled her with holes rather than beating her and debasing her before they did it.
That didn’t mean he didn’t want her way the fuck out of his life. In another state. Fuck, in another fucking country.
He did want that.
He’d even prayed for it, that was how much he wanted it.
And now she was very, very much out of his life.
“That isn’t true.” Her whispered words came at him and he focused on her again. “I mean, you know, she wasn’t, uh… Miss Popularity but what was done to her –”
Chace cut her off, “Let’s get to why you’re here, Miz Goodknight.”
He saw her moon-shadowed teeth bite her bottom lip and she looked around. He’d been a cop for a while. Because of this, he knew she was buying time to come up with a plausible lie.
So he prompted impatiently, “Miz Goodknight.”
She looked back at him and said in her quiet, appealing voice, “Faye.”
“What?”
He heard her clear her throat and she said, louder this time, “Faye. My name is Faye.”
“I know that,” he informed her, his tone no less short, maybe even more so.
“Well, you can, uh… you know, call me that,” she invited.
“Great,” he bit off. “Now you wanna answer my question?”
“No, actually, uh… not really.” she replied and Chace stared.