Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

The sound of footsteps rockets my attention to the open sliding glass door, and I spring to my feet. A moment later, Kane enters the room, his tie loose, his white shirt streaked with red, with blood, and my throat goes dry, a knot forming in my chest where those emotions I don’t feel are supposed to exist. Kane is, of course, free of any signs that his soaked clothing, or the events that led to that dilemma, have affected him; he’s still as cool and composed as ever, but then, aren’t I cool and composed? I’m not crying. I’m not screaming. I’m just—oh yeah—trembling to the point my knees seem to be knocking.

Kane seems to notice as well, his gaze lowering sharply to my legs, lingering for several beats before traveling my body, then returning to my knees, where he lingers once more. While his expression does not change, there is a slight tensing of his jaw, a perceptible hardening of his features in unison with a sharpening of his energy. And since I am a master of stirring this reaction in him, I know how to name it: anger. Hard, biting anger that is always controlled, always contained, but never without a brutal, calculated impact. I get it. I invite it too often, and I think he likes it, because, well, because we are just two fucked-up people getting more fucked up by the moment.

But I don’t like it now. I don’t understand it. Or maybe I do. Or don’t. God. I don’t know what I know other than my skin is hot from his stare. Reactively, my gaze lowers, and while I still do not know why he’s angry, I do know why I’m trembling. I am naked and covered in blood.

Suddenly I am back on the beach, watching as the water turns to blood, and for reasons I can’t explain, I am no longer trembling.

I jerk awake and sit up, gasping for air, my heart racing, only to realize the alarm on my phone is going off. Reaching for it, I find it on the mattress next to me and turn it off, noting the nearly 6:00 a.m. hour. I’ve been asleep and I don’t even remember dozing off. But damn it. The nightmares are back and in full swing, every damn night, after being gone for months. I run my fingers through my hair and pat my cheeks, my stomach growling fiercely as my last meal was Tuesday sometime.

Pushing to my feet, I give my cheeks another pat, and, noting the light beginning to peek around the edges of the curtain, I make a quick run to the bathroom and then go on a hunt for a sponge and bucket. Supplies found in the kitchen, I head for the sliding glass door and lift the curtain, scouting out the patio area to find it all clear. I disarm the security system, open the sliding glass door, and step into the chilly morning beach air. I stop as I did last night, scanning the area, letting my Spidey senses do their job, and I’m far less uneasy now than I was last night.

Shoulders relaxing, I turn to the glass to prepare to clean up and go cold all over. There is no blood. The glass has been cleaned by someone else.





CHAPTER NINE

I don’t hang around to appreciate the fact that Junior has the good manners to clean up after himself or—considering my thoughts on Samantha, I’m going to go out on a limb and say—herself. Nor do I let myself linger on the fact that this person is already my stalker. And maybe the cleanup job was just Junior messing with my head as part of her stalker duties, but maybe, just maybe, I’ve outsmarted Junior, and she’s worried that she left a print behind. It’s a thought that carries me back inside the house, where I secure the property and rush to the bathroom.

On my way, I dial the security company and request camera installation, but it’s apparently too early for them to actually help me. And whatever the case, I’m doubtful I’ll end up with cameras in place before I leave town, but I want them installed no matter what. I’m living across the country. I should have already ensured I had a bird’s-eye view from afar. It’s a thought that stops me in my tracks, my brow furrowing. Why wasn’t Junior worried that I had cameras? Perhaps she simply covered up with a scarf or hoodie in case I did, but what if Junior already knew I had no cameras? Samantha, being close to Andrew, could have found out in even a casual conversation that Andrew didn’t know was plotted to extract information. Bottom line, I think, rushing down the hallway again: I need those damn cameras in place, and really, truly, Junior might think she’s driving me out of town, but she’s wrong. She’s ensured that I’m here to stay until I can deal with her. Whatever the fuck that has to mean. I hit the bathroom and start stripping, contemplating exactly what that means, with no good answer.

By the time I’ve showered, I’m rather delighted with the prospect that while Junior is trying to fuck with my head, I’m already fucking with hers or I wouldn’t be getting so much attention. She doesn’t want to expose my secret. She wants to keep me from exposing hers. And what is that secret? I’m intrigued at the idea of finding out. A thought that has me hurrying to dry my hair, a color that this town would call mousy brown now that I’ve let my highlights grow out, but I call it just the way God made me. And if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. That said, I still like my girly makeup, and I dare to use what I have left in my bathroom drawer, which I hope like hell hasn’t expired and leaves me in hives or some shit like that. Whatever the case, I use it, and I do so without the benefits of coffee, which probably means once I get into the sunlight, I’ll look like the seven-year-old niece I don’t have did my face for me. Lord help me, I shudder to imagine Andrew and Samantha having kids. I mean, would she get a babysitter to go fuck Kane?

Irritated with that thought, I toss down the pale-pink lipstick, smooth down my hair, and head to the closet, where I ignore the expensive pantsuits and dresses hanging here and there, ones I’d adored when I belonged in this town. I don’t belong now, and I don’t want to belong here anymore. Exactly why I toss on a robe, grab my suitcase from the car, and drop it in the center of the closet. Opening it up, I pull out my Express-brand black jeans, and an “LA Rocks” black T-shirt, which declares me an outsider. Once I’m dressed, I reach for my UGG sneakers in my bag and pause before tossing them in the corner. Damn it. Outsiders don’t get squat from these arrogant, self-absorbed assholes. I resist giving up my Express jeans, but I instead pull a black T-shirt from a local charity event I’d taken part in way back when off a hanger and put it on. From there, I choose knee-high expensive-ass Chanel boots and a black Chanel purse to match, along with, you guessed it, a Chanel blazer, bypassing the full trench coat in the corner. My best accessory by far is the one that cannot be seen: my ankle holster, where my service weapon is hidden beneath my jeans. My second best is the badge clipped to my waist that tells everyone in this town to skip all questions and let me do the judging, not them.

On the way to the garage, I dial my doughnut-loving tech expert we all call “Tic Tac,” because, well, we do. I really have no answer other than that. “Holy hell, Lilah,” he answers as I slide into my rental. “Do you know what time it is in LA?”

“Party time?”

“Bedtime, Lilah,” he bites out. “It’s time for me to go back to sleep.”

“I need stuff.”

“I have nightmares where you are on autorepeat, saying, ‘I need stuff. I need stuff.’ And you know what I say?”

“Anything you want, my queen?”

“I say, ‘Fuck you, Lilah.’”

I purse my lips. “Hmmm. Well. Someone needs coffee. I’ll e-mail you details on the reports I need, but I’m also express-mailing you fingerprints to analyze. And this is the important part. Run them, but keep them off the books.”

“You know the risk I take—”

“You know you owe me.”

“I’m way too tired to have you holding me hostage.”

“There was another murder waiting on me when I got here.”

“There’s always a murder where you are, Lilah.”

“Same MO as those two murders I’ve been working there, and the one in Manhattan, too.”

“Like I said. Murder follows you. E-mail me what you need.” He hangs up.