Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

It’s a thing for me now, I guess. Men hang up on me. I shrug and start the car, my destination a little mail joint I know has a drop box. From there, I’ll down coffee, and maybe, just maybe, I might head to the police station, where my brother and father will make me wish for whiskey that I can’t handle. It’s a good plan, except for one thing: the mail joint doesn’t have a drop box anymore and doesn’t open for an hour and a half.

Spying a diner I know well, I head inside, thankful I know the food but none of the staff. Huddled in a corner booth, it’s not long before I’m working on a second cup of coffee with my case files in front of me. Over and over, I flip through the victim photos, lingering on the tattoo, trying to come up with a reason that one of the victims has it and the others do not but reaching only one conclusion: if this were a serial killer, they’d all fit some sort of formula, and they do not. These people don’t live close, work close, or have the same hair color or age range. They don’t even have similar jobs. Yet, they must have a link that I haven’t found. To me, though, this lack of an obvious connection says to me that all the victims are on a hit list. They couldn’t have been just anyone that fit a profile—they had to be these specific people. If I want to find my killer, I need to find the angry bird picking off players, and there is only one lead I have on that person. The tattoo. And I only know one person who might know what it means.



While dropping off the print, I hear my phone keep ringing.

Ignoring my brother’s ten freaking calls, I drive toward the castle on the ocean side that is Kane Mendez’s sprawling complex and park among a cluster of a dozen high-end vehicles. I don’t want to be here, but deep down, when I brought up that tattoo in LA to Murphy, I knew this is where I’d end up. I knew he’d be where I’d find my answers, and the truth is, I’ve needed those answers for a very long time. My phone rings again, and when it’s once again Andrew, I groan and just take the damn call. “I’m not going to make the press conference that I assume I already missed,” I say, based on the time.

“You were supposed to come here this morning. We talked about this.”

“I did you a favor. The FBI is less important if I’m not seen or heard.”

“The news that you’re here and wearing a badge is already buzzing around town.”

“Because you held a press conference,” I say.

“The big city has made you forget small-town politics. By the time your head hit the pillow, the town knew you were here and wearing a badge. Sis. Damn it. I know my town. If you’re going to operate in it, you need to follow my rules.”

“Work your case, Andrew. I’m trying to do some fact-checking and get out of here.”

“I don’t want you to get out of here, Lilah. You know that. We’re talking about this—you, me, the case, and a whole lot more—at Dad’s for dinner tonight. And if you think about not showing, I will hunt you the fuck down.” And with that declaration, he, of course, hangs up.

Sighing a loud, obnoxious sigh, I open the door and climb out, a chill in the air promising winter is near, the water is cold, and the bulk of the tourists are thankfully staying the fuck home. Wishing for that trench coat I’d left back in my closet, I head for the main castle, which has two smaller, more traditional buildings hugging the sides. A wooden bridge covering a manmade moat is my path to the main arched entrance. I cross it, wondering whether Kane is watching my approach or has been alerted in some way that I’m here. Hell. He might have someone following me. The bastard is a control freak who has his hand in everything. Well, except me. I fixed that. And I fully intend to have it stay fixed, even though I know good and well that is a statement he’s about to test.

Entering the lobby, stone beneath my feet, a towering ceiling above, I walk to the reception desk, an odd, triangle-stone setup that demands attention, much like the man who chose the design. I walk toward the receptionist, a pretty brunette in her twenties, another one I don’t know. I’m liking this trend of knowing no one. I know it can’t last, but a girl can wish.

“Ms. Love,” the woman greets me, proving I’m not as anonymous as I’d hoped. She stands. “I’ll show you to his office,” she says, not even bothering to ask who I’m here to see.

“I know the way,” I reply.

Her red-painted lips curve ever so slightly. “He said you’d say that.”

“Of course he did,” I murmur, turning away from her, needing an escape from the sudden adrenaline rushing through me, I ignore the elevator to my left and head up the wide stone steps to my right. This is it, I tell myself. One meeting. Then we are done. Done. Done. Done. I repeat that word in my mind and stop at the top level, telling myself to find my Otherworld and step inside. To be Agent Love. But this is his world, his place to command, and my Otherworld refuses to intrude.

Inhaling a breath meant to be calming, I puff it out with absolutely no change from one moment to the next in how I feel. Screw it and just do it, I tell myself, cutting left down the hallway to the huge double doors, which are protected by a horseshoe-shaped desk with a familiar blonde as guard and secretary.

“Lilah,” Tabitha greets me as I approach, her demeanor—at least to me—as icy as ever, with a big ol’ stick up her ass. But hey. If I were a Harvard-educated attorney who lost my license and was now playing secretary to Kane Mendez, who I want to fuck but who won’t fuck me, I might be a bitch, too. Well, more of a bitch than I am already.

I stop at her desk. “You’re looking as Barbie Doll–ish as ever, Tabitha,” I comment, noting the total absence of lines in her thirtysomething face, which tells me that she, like most of this town, is already a Botox addict. I flick her deep cleavage a look and return my attention to her plastic face. “Are your breasts larger now?”

“My breasts are natural.”

I smirk. “Right. Natural. Got it.”

She glowers and I dismiss her by walking past her desk and straight to Kane’s double doors, opening one of them without knocking and stepping inside. I shut the door behind me and lean on the wooden surface while Kane sits in the center of a half-moon-shaped room framed by nothing but windows and water. It’s a stunning view I doubt many notice but for the man behind the catercorner, massive cherry desk, his powerful presence dangerous to anyone who dares negotiate with him, let alone challenge him.

“Lilah,” he says, leaning back in his chair to study me, his suit a gray number, custom-tailored to fit him to perfection. His tie is a dark blue to match the thin pinstripe running through the material of his suit.

“Kane,” I reply, and while I intend to move, I do not, seconds ticking by until he is arching a dark brow in my direction.

“What are we doing, beautiful?” he queries.

“Lilah. My name is Lilah.”

“You told me to stop saying your name.”

“Semantics, Kane,” I say, crossing the large space between us while his eyes follow my every step. “Stick with Agent Love,” I add, claiming the leather seat in front of his desk.

“I do rather like the way that sounds,” he replies, his voice silk and sandpaper, and I have no doubt it’s by design as everything he does is by design. “Agent Love.”

I ignore what I know is a suggestion of one of the man’s many sexual appetites. “Tell me again where you were last night.”

He leans forward, hands resting on the desk, the air crackling sharply. “Lilah,” he reprimands me softly, throwing my Agent Love directive out the window.

“Were you really with Samantha Young?” I press.

“I have no reason to lie about something like that, while I have one very big reason, which is you, to tell you otherwise.”

More like he needs an alibi, I think. “Were you with her?”

“Yes.”

“From what time to what time?”

“Estimate. Six to eight.”

“Were you aware she’s dating my brother?”

“You mean she’s fucking him.”

“You knew,” I accuse.

“No, I did not. And obviously there’s more to your choirboy brother than either of us realized.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, recognizing the raw nerve my brother opened as taking a direct hit.

“She’s corrupt and that’s not unknown in this town. You know this.”