Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

I hold the note in my gloved hand, the world spinning around me, nothing but black-and-white space, fading in and out. No room. No thoughts. No sounds. Seconds tick by, or maybe it’s minutes. Too long until my first coherent thought. I’m spinning out of control for too damn long. I don’t do out of control. Not anymore. Never anymore. I blink and mentally shove myself back to reality, aware of my heart thundering in my chest, of blood rushing in my ears. And damn it to hell, my knees are weak and my hand trembles where it holds the note.

I read it again, focused on two words: I know. And the blood, or rather what looks like some sort of paint on second glance, splattered on the sliding glass door tells me exactly what that means, what this person is referencing. Someone other than Kane and me was here that night. Someone who saw everything, or enough to be dangerous, and that knowledge shakes me to the core. I inhale slowly, drawing in a thick breath and pushing air in and out of the tight cavity I believe is still my chest. Damn it. I think I might be hyperventilating for the first time in my life. Now. Here. Not in puddles of blood or examining a dead body, but rather with the panic of being caught.

Rejecting the weakness that I don’t have time to own, I try another breath and repeat the same torture. Damn it, I am hyperventilating, and I do not give myself permission to do this. I straighten my spine and suck in air fast and hard, ignoring the pain. I remind myself that I’m no rookie at catching guilty assholes, and this isn’t the first time one of them has come after me. It is, however, the first time I was also a guilty asshole, but that’s beside the point. Actually, it really is the point, but that isn’t the point. Holy fuck, I need to calm the heck down. I’m back to sounding like Texas again.

“Otherworld, Lilah. Work the crime scene, Lilah. Deal with the personal side of this later, Lilah.” My teeth set hard. I’m freaking talking to myself. I really hate people who talk to themselves, almost as much as I hate people who do stupid things. I also hate people who do bad things, and I have now qualified for all three categories. Especially the bad-things part, or I wouldn’t be living my own idiocy right now, nor would my family be at risk of doing the same. However, thinking about said idiocy, while perhaps more necessary than I’d like, can’t happen right now. Actions have to happen right now. Decisions have to be made, and despite my desire to do so, I’m not going to be able to walk on eggshells until morning.

Crossing the room, I walk into the kitchen where I locate my field bag on the gray stone counter, unzip it, and remove a Baggie. Without giving the note another look, I stick it inside and seal it away. A murder note. A name that fits for reasons I didn’t plan to allow anyone to know aside from Kane, and yet, someone does know. And that someone knows me while I do not know them, and that is dangerously unacceptable. But I’ll find out who is behind this, and once I do . . . well, I don’t know what the hell I’ll do, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes.

Resolved to find this asshole, I slip my field bag over my shoulder, my eyes landing on my keys. The fact that I don’t remember setting them on the counter speaks to my state of mind when I walked in the door. If I don’t find a way to really, truly disconnect myself from my personal feelings, my problems are going to have problems. And when your problems start to have problems, you’re either the good guy that just got killed or the bad guy who just got caught. I don’t like either option.

I start to turn away but stop, my gaze back on those keys, and for reasons I can’t explain, I’m uncomfortable leaving them sitting where they are. I snatch them up, and I’m on the move this time, exiting the kitchen and walking through the living area, but I tune out the room. Most especially the décor that reminds me of my mother, rejecting the emotions she stirs in me. I can’t be Laura Love’s daughter right now.

Continuing forward, I cut right and walk down a hallway that, should I travel to the end, would lead to the master bedroom, but I stop midway at the heavy, dungeon-style arched wooden door that leads to the attic office, inserting a key from my chain into the lock. I hesitate a moment, the need for that key a logical explanation for why I didn’t want to leave the keys behind, but my gut is not satisfied with this answer. I stand there, unmoving, listening to the sounds around me with expectancy. Which is insanity, because I’m alone. I made sure that I’m alone. But then, my insanity isn’t out of the question, any more than the only sound touching my ears, that of the grandfather clock in the master bedroom, a family heirloom passed down for generations on my mother’s side.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick-fucking-tock.

Grimacing, I turn the lock and open the door, flipping on the light and starting the climb up the wooden steps that wind left and then right, until I reach the attic my parents long ago converted to an office. Once at the top, the steepled ceilings tower above me, while the matching wood-paneled walls and floors age the space and shrink it. I quickly cross the room my mother called “quaint” and father called simply “his.” That is, until my mother had died and it had become “mine.”

I stop in front of the heavy oak desk that is the centerpiece of the room, where it sits in front of an arched window, and drop my bag on the wooden top. I’m about to place the Baggie with the note inside it there as well but find myself hesitating, thinking better of leaving it exposed.

“Exposed?” I mock out loud, apparently hanging on to this whole “talking to myself” routine for at least a little longer. “Is a ghost going to grab it and your keys, Lilah, or what? Because no one else is here.” And yet, I recognize my gut feelings when I get them, and I long ago stopped trying to find logic in their delivery. They come. They demand. I listen. The few times I didn’t were disasters I’d prefer not to claim as my own. I don’t need another disaster right now.

I walk around the desk, where I open the top drawer and deposit the Baggie inside with limited relief, considering the illogical urgency of that action. Whatever the case, it’s done, but I am not. I hurry toward the closet to the left of the stairs, opening the door and entering the pitch-dark room. Stepping forward, I reach for the string hanging from the ceiling and tug. Almost instantly light blasts my eyes like a super-damn-nova, blinding me. An unfriendly reminder that I’d installed a megabright bulb from the garage that apparently still shines brightly after two years. A choice I’d made because me and shopping go together about as well as the animal crackers and instant mac n’ cheese that was all I had left in my pantry when I left LA.

Blinking away spots, I bring the space into view, the slanted ceiling above me and my father’s old uniforms from his days as chief of police hanging on one side while a single bag holding one of the gowns I’d worn to one of my mother’s award shows hangs on the other. Memories I walk past, both literally and mentally, to reach the wooden chest that covers the entire back wall.