Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

And then there’s my brother. I’d been angry with Andrew inside the house, but the minute we were out here alone, our conversation was easy, and it had felt just like old times. We’d felt like us again. His answers had been perfect. And yet, I go back to the existence of Samantha in his life. No matter what he says, she doesn’t fit him. But then he thinks Kane doesn’t fit me. Kane does fit me, all too well, and too often, which is exactly the problem. Kane doesn’t scare me. I scare me when I’m with Kane. He connects with the parts of me I don’t want to exist. He accepts them and makes it easier for me to accept them. He makes me embrace the real me that only he knows. That’s why I can’t be around him. But that brings me back to Andrew. If he doesn’t know me, then maybe I don’t know him. I don’t like that idea. I don’t like the chatter in my head that says the bad has only just begun.

I need to find answers. I need to find Woods. He has the answers. And so does someone else. Kane might claim he’s not his father’s successor, but I’ve seen things. I know things. This is Kane’s territory. He owns this town, as his father had before him. And I’d once asked him how his father was as dirty as he was, and yet East Hampton Village, his home, remained so peaceful. He’d told me his father’s cardinal rules: Don’t work where you play. Don’t kill where you rest your head.

In my determination to stay removed from Kane, I haven’t let myself tap into how well I know him. Kane isn’t behind this murder. That means Woods really did randomly choose to kill a woman that just happened to be Kane’s employee on the very night that I arrived. Or someone wants Kane, and myself, to believe that, to keep one or both of us out of their business. If I’m right on the latter, Woods will be framed for all the murders. And my family is either involved or being used to set this up.

Holy fuck. Holy hell. Holy fuck.

I need to talk to Kane and convince him to tell me what he knows, and I need to do it now. And that means convincing him our secrets equate to his immunity. I don’t second-guess myself. I dial Kane. And, of course, this time he doesn’t pick up on the first ring. It takes three brutal rings that feel like three hundred before he answers with, “Agent Love.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Not on the phone.”

“Where?”

“The Cove,” I say, a spot we both know well, and not because it represents pleasure.

He’s silent for a beat, then two. “When?”

“Now.”

“I’ll be there,” he says, and with his confirmation, I hang up.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

If you want to get answers from a man like Kane Mendez, a smart girl takes him somewhere she knows she won’t end up naked and silly-stupid. Somewhere that still tells him we’re connected. He’s protected. For me, that place is the Cove.

On the surface, a good twenty minutes from town, the Cove seems to be a hidden treasure few on Long Island know about and one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. The water is bluer than blue, and the waves break to salty-white perfection, like angel wings floating in the sea. And in the early morning, no less than a dozen seagulls dance above those angel wings, fishing for their breakfast. It’s a peaceful seclusion, an escape I’ve often welcomed. It seems to be romantic, even. A perfect place for lovers. It’s a big-ass fa?ade, and perhaps that’s why I love it so much. It’s not what it seems any more than I am what I seem to be.

Beneath the surface, though, and after dark like now, the Cove is a different place. Even on a night like tonight when the stars are bright and the full moon brighter, the mile-long dirt road leading to the water is shrouded in shadows. The steep drops on either side are riddled with rocks and who knows what kind of animals. When the stars and moon are hiding, it’s hauntingly desolate, and as pitch black as you might imagine hell to be if it weren’t for the fire. Those are the nights I once craved here. The ones that made me face my fears. The ones that assured me that no one sane would dare come here. So if I’d run into anyone, they were probably someone I’d count on shooting. Coming here alone had become a kind of a rush.

No. An addiction. Perhaps a sick one, but no one, not even Kane, thinks to judge me. It’s not a place for lovers. I mean, if you were with a man, screwing your brains out, you’d want your gun in your hand. And a back seat where you could actually lie down and not roll down a rocky cliff.

I don’t do back seats. Neither does Kane.

I watch my rearview mirror for signs of his approach, hating the way my damn heart is racing. Telling myself it’s about what Kane may tell me tonight, not about the man himself. If I’m honest with myself, though, that’s not the real reason. Of course, I like to think that I’m honest with myself, not just about—or with—everyone else. I’m pretty simple. I’m fucked up and resolved to stay that way. It works for me. It works for my job. Keeping with that fucked-up theme, my heart isn’t racing because of what Kane might tell me. It’s because it’s him I’m meeting. He’s trouble for me and as every criminal I’ve ever arrested knows, the problem with trouble is that it can be so damn seductive.

I clear the bank of shadows and refocus on the here and now. The beachfront, an inky silhouette of rocks and boulders, comes into view, with Kane’s car already parked in the small gravelly circle where my path ends. The racing of my heart accelerates, but I don’t question my decision to ask Kane to come here just because I’m affected by him. Half-assing my way through things and avoiding the man who knows this land like no other isn’t going to solve these murders. Nor is it going to stop an innocent man, which I suspect Woods to be, from taking a fall. Or ending up dead. I’m going to solve these murders and save Woods. And my family. I think I might have to save my family, and that’s worth at least a small deal with the devil himself, aka Kane.

I near his car, and while his windows are tinted, there are no lights, no hint of movement. Wherever he is, he’s not in the car, but wherever he is, he knows I’m here. There’s simply no way for anyone to arrive here without being seen. It’s a perfect hideaway. Even the cell service out here is hit-or-miss, adding to how perfect the location is for a private conversation. Or illicit activity. Or murder. It’s a good place for murder. The kind that’s never supposed to be discovered. Of course, the killer I’m hunting, be that person a serial killer or an assassin, wants his victims to be found. But he, or she, leaves a clean crime scene that speaks of an intent to remain anonymous. This killer would not confess. If things heated up, he or she would disappear the way a body would disappear down into the water in this very cove. If, of course, the body was properly prepared. And, there you go—the reason I have no friends. These are the kind of thoughts that do not make good supper talk, and so I simply have nothing else to talk about.

Killing my engine, I scan for Kane, finding him exactly where I suspected he would be. At our spot, standing a good twenty feet away, on top of one of two connected giant boulders we’ve often favored. He’s facing the water, towering above a steep incline, his back to me, his long black trench coat lifting in the wind. Looking like some sort of dark fucking knight. Dark is right, I think. Dark and dangerous.

I’m not my father. How many times has he said those words to me? And he’s right every time. He’s not like his father. He’s smarter, more refined. More diverse. He’s not his father. He’s something I cannot define, but I do believe that it’s far more lethal than Kane wants me to believe it is. He is. Or maybe it’s me that still doesn’t want to believe it.