Deadly deceit, p.8
Deadly Deceit, page 8
Vivian shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks. Heading into the office first, but I’ll be fine.”
“Vivian, maybe you should call it a day.”
A smile tipped the corners of her lips. “Do you know your accent adds an extra syllable to my name when you say it? Viviannn.”
Deflection. Incorrigible. Or maybe flirting? It wasn’t like he had a whole lot of experience in that department. Probably wise to just stick to the job then, Ryan. “Just try to stay out of trouble.”
By the time Ryan led Otis Jackson into his holding cell, the sun had set and a fingerprint match to ones taken from the Gazette had confirmed he’d been there the night of the break-in, even if Otis had zero recollection of the crime or hurting Vivian.
It quickly became clear the man was on drugs and probably had been the night of the crime. It was also likely that the drugs were the reason nothing coherent came out of the guy’s mouth and wouldn’t until he detoxed. Ryan yawned. He was tired and ready to go home, but his thoughts remained on Vivian. Had she gone home like he’d suggested? Or was she still at the Gazette?
Forty minutes later, he had his answer. When he drove by the old bank building, the Gazette office was dark, which meant Vivian was home. He came to a stoplight and, against his better judgment, pulled up her address on his computer. It wouldn’t take more than ten minutes to run by her place and make sure all was well.
Ryan took a left and headed toward Bristol Circle. A blanket of stars covered the sky. This kind of cosmic beauty was absent beneath the glaring city lights of DC. Sure, the Metro had its own kind of historic richness, but he would miss this if he left. The quietness of Walton was what the rest of the world was missing, right? He didn’t have to chase any dreams because he was happy here. Content.
If that were true, then why was he still holding on to a handful of offers? Ryan had officially turned down a few, including the one from Breckenstone Security, but he hadn’t been able to reject the ones from the FBI, CIA, and another private security firm outside of Bethesda. Why?
His thoughts kept rounding back to Sheriff Huggins’s counsel. Was he using his family as an excuse not to leave Walton? The sheriff had been right about his mom and Frankie. They were both doing fine—better than fine, otherwise Ryan never would’ve left for Quantico when the opportunity to attend ATRT training came up. That meant his hesitancy could be the result of only one thing . . . or person. His father.
Ryan never understood what it was his father craved, only that it had taken him away. How many years had passed with Ryan sitting at the front window of their house waiting for him to return? Except he never did. Ryan figured his father had found whatever he had been chasing after, and it was better than his life there in Walton with his family.
Even if part of Ryan still hungered to fulfill his dream of protecting the nation, his father’s actions overshadowed it. His father had chased after a dream to the detriment of his family. Ryan sighed as he turned onto Bristol Circle. Was Vivian doing the same thing? Only her chase was to the detriment of her safety?
Porch lights illuminated homes settled in for the night. A child’s bike left out, a dog barking to be let inside, trash cans pushed to the curb—everything looked normal. As it should. He passed Pecca’s home and slowed when he arrived at the end of the cul-de-sac, where 1996 Bristol Circle was dark. A BMW parked in the driveway assured Ryan that Vivian was home. And probably asleep.
He was about to head home when a flash of light caught his attention. Ryan put his car in park, rolled down his window, and flipped on his spotlight, directing the bright beam onto the cottage home.
The sound of chirping crickets filled the night air. Whatever he thought he’d seen was gone. He pressed the button for his window when a muffled scream pierced the air. Vivian!
Ryan jumped out of his car and raced up her driveway. “Dispatch, 10-67 at 1996 Bristol Circle.”
The sound of crashing glass lured him onto the front porch. He drew his weapon and held it up, then pulled out a flashlight. “Hello, Vivian? It’s Deputy Frost. What’s going on?”
“Help, please!”
Ryan’s pulse jumped. He tried the front door, but it was locked. “Vivian?”
Her scream echoed, and he kicked his foot into the door. The wood splintered beneath his boot, sending the door flying open and crashing against the wall.
“What did you do?” Vivian asked.
Ryan’s gun and flashlight trained on Vivian, who was holding a frying pan in one hand and a can of spray in the other. He quickly lowered his gun but kept his flashlight on the shocked expression staring back at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Her eyes flashed to the door barely hanging on to the hinges. “What did you do to my door?”
“I heard you scream for help.” His heart was pounding. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Ryan’s brow furrowed in frustration. He radioed back to dispatch an all clear and then studied Vivian. “Why are you screaming? Why is it dark in here? And what are you doing with those? Are they your weapons or something?”
“Weapons?” She looked at the items in her hands. “Oh. Yeah. I need them to protect me from the monster hiding in the bedroom.”
Monster? Ryan passed the beam of his flashlight over Vivian’s eyes. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, I haven’t been drinking.” She mocked him. “There really is a monster in the bedroom.”
Ryan holstered his weapon, the tension he felt seconds ago lingering. “What are you talking about?”
Yeowwwl.
Ryan aimed his flashlight in the direction of the hair-raising yelp. “What was that?”
Vivian lifted up the pan and spray defensively while stepping closer to Ryan. “I don’t know,” she half whispered, half hissed. “When I came home, the lights wouldn’t turn on and I heard a noise. I screamed. It ran.”
“Where?”
“Down there.” She used the frying pan to point in the direction of the hallway. “In one of the bedrooms.”
“The first thing we need to do is get the lights back on. I’m going to check the circuit breaker.”
“And leave me by myself with that . . . that thing?”
Vivian pressed closer into him and he wanted nothing more than to stay right there in the dark with her. But he stopped his thoughts before he latched on to an improbable possibility.
“If we both leave, whatever’s in the bedroom might take off or find a new place to hide. Do you want to play hide-and-seek with it tonight by yourself?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Okay, so you stay here with this.” He handed her his flashlight. “And I’ll go flip the switch so we can see what we’re dealing with.”
“What if he tries to escape?”
He looked at her and was instantly reminded of his sister’s favorite Disney movie, Tangled. “Nail him with the frying pan, Rapunzel.”
Vivian told him where to find the electrical box, so Ryan stepped out of the house and through the side door into the garage. With a simple flip of the main switch, the lights in the house lit up. Now to figure out what kind of monster Vivian had trapped inside the house.
“Hurry, I think I heard it move.”
Vivian stood in front of him in a tank top and running shorts, her long hair swept into a messy ponytail and her hand wielding a weapon of . . . “Is that hair spray?”
She lowered her arm. “Yes. It’s all I had.”
“You were going to knock it out and then do its hair?”
“No.” She stuck out her lip defiantly. “Spray it in the eyes so I could run away.”
Scratching and another hideously loud screech made Vivian cover her ears. Ryan started down the hallway, listening to the hissing coming from the first bedroom. He reached in and let his fingers play against the wall until he found the light switch. Flipping it on, he caught movement at the edge of the mattress. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. The baleful eyes of a cat glared at him.
Vivian had discarded her weapons and leaned forward, but not close enough that she couldn’t bolt if the monster charged. “What is it?”
“A cat. Feral by the sounds of it.” Ryan squatted back on his haunches. “How did it get in here?”
“I don’t know.”
Ryan reached for his baton and extended it.
“You’re not going to hit it with that, are you?”
He swung his gaze over his shoulder. “This coming from the woman ready to crack its skull with a cast iron skillet?”
“That was before I knew it was a cat. Poor thing is just scared.”
“I’m not going to hit it,” Ryan said as he stood up. “I’m going to make some noise and hopefully scare it out of the room. Go open the front door and then stand in the hall so it doesn’t dart into another part of the house.”
Vivian frowned. “Maybe I should be the one chasing it out of the room.”
“No, I don’t want you to get bit.”
“Good call.” Vivian looked down the hall. “Just give me a second and I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”
Ryan kept his eye on the cantankerous cat and waited until he heard Vivian call out to him.
“Ready.”
Ryan tapped his baton on the floor. For every step he took around the room, the cat moved farther under the bed in the direction of the door and freedom.
“Hey, kitty-kitty. Time for you to leave.”
The cat hissed, ears back and teeth exposed.
Tap-tap-tap.
The cat inched out from under the bed.
“Get ready,” Ryan said before he tapped his baton quickly against the floor and took a quick step toward the cat, sending it scurrying out of the bedroom and down the hall.
“Aghhh!”
Ryan hurried out of the room to see Vivian high-stepping onto a chair with a seat cushion from the couch positioned in front of her like a shield.
“What? Where did it go? Did it leave?”
“Yes! Yes! Out the door!”
“Then why didn’t you shut the door?”
“I didn’t want to get bit.”
Ryan closed the front door and returned to Vivian. He held his hand up to her. “Aw, poor thing is just scared.”
Vivian arched her eyebrows. “You better be referring to that cat, Deputy,” she said, taking his hand. She stepped down from the chair and tossed the seat cushion onto the couch. “You’re sure that thing isn’t coming back?”
“One second.” Ryan slipped his baton back into his belt and faked a call into dispatch. “10-91a. Resident safe. Animal chased into hiding by frying pan and can of”—he found the can of hairspray—“Aqua Net.”
Vivian’s mouth gaped. “You’re awful, you know that?”
Ryan smirked. “It’s fine. We get RFI calls all the time.”
“RFIs?”
“Rabid Feline Intrusion.”
“You think it was rabid?”
It was impossible not to laugh. Vivian tried to look mad, but her scowl slipped into a smile and Ryan liked it. A lot. He needed to go. “So, if you’re fine, I’ll be going.”
“Um, before you leave, would you be willing to check out the rest of the house with me? Make sure there aren’t any more unwanted pets lurking beneath beds or hiding in closets?”
“Sure.”
Vivian followed him through the small two-bedroom, one-bath home, finding nothing else save for dust bunnies and a hole in the master bedroom’s window screen.
“That’s most likely how the cat got into the house. I’ve got some extra screen at my place. I’d be happy to fix it, make sure you don’t get any late-night visitors.”
She shuddered. “That would be great. Thank you.”
“Tomorrow? Before the games?”
“Games?”
Ryan swallowed. He’d seen the hesitation in Vivian’s expression when Pecca had invited her, but he really thought she’d go. Hoped. “Game night?”
“Oh, yeah.” Hesitation clouded her eyes again.
“You don’t have to go, ya know. Pecca will understand. I mean, she’ll probably be angry for a couple of weeks. Avoid you. Spread rumors and such, but—”
“She will not.”
Ryan smiled. “No, she won’t. But she’ll definitely corner you and demand to know why you turned down a night with the likes of me. And . . . I did save you from a rabid monster.”
Vivian’s lips slipped into that smile that made his pulse sprint. She leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll be ready tomorrow and if you show up to fix my screen, I won’t turn you away.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “I won’t be late.” He turned on his heel and forced himself to be cool. But coolness went out the window the second he got into the safety of his dark squad car. Grinning like a fool, he tapped his fists triumphantly against the steering wheel, completely ignoring the teeny-tiny warning in the back of his head telling him that chasing a woman like Vivian DeMarco might be detrimental to his heart.
nine
Blaise Taylor
Cougar Point Guard
Carter Hall
The Porsche 911 series was hot. Blaise Taylor imagined himself driving down Montgomery Boulevard in it, turning every head. He clicked through the many model options. These bad boys were sweet.
“Completely impractical,” he could hear his momma saying. Blaise didn’t care. He’d worked hard for this opportunity and deserved something for his efforts. And he’d paid plenty of times. Blaise ran his fingers over the scars on his knuckles. By fifth grade he already towered over his peers but lacked the muscle to defend himself against the bullies. His only saving grace was the fact that his legs were longer than everyone else’s, giving him the head start he needed when the bell rang. He ran until his legs tired and discovered it took him one county over. To the Boys and Girls Club, where Coach Mike took pity on the sniffling kid and told him to work out his frustration on the court.
So Blaise did.
From fifth grade until his senior year of high school, Blaise worked the court from the time school let out until the sky grew so dark he had to use a flashlight to find his way back home. He glanced at the lineup of luxury cars on his computer screen. Carmine Red. He clicked the color so the model reflected his choice. A red so bright no one could ignore it. Not even the kids who had made his life hell—like Jamal Thurgood.
Jamal had made it his life mission to prove the only king on the court was him. And up until their senior year it had been hard to tell who was the better player. What Blaise lacked in aggression, he made up for in skill. And what Jamal lacked in skill, he made up for in illegal jabs, picks, and the violent personal foul that broke Blaise’s nose and ended Jamal’s chances to play college ball.
A ping alerted him to an email. Blaise swiveled around in his desk chair and grabbed his phone from the bed. His excitement over the car died the second he opened the email.
Your presence is required at the following address:
173 Lewis Road
Tybee Island, Georgia
Accommodations will be provided.
Information regarding your date is attached.
Acceptance of this invitation within one hour is demanded before further action is taken.
The Watcher
Blaise ran both hands through his hair, his fingers gripping it tight. Before further action is taken. He knew what that action would be. This wasn’t the first email the Watcher had sent him, and they haunted him almost as much as his own stupidity did. He should’ve reported the email the first time, but that would have meant telling on himself.
The screen on his phone changed to an incoming call from his mom. Tears burned his eyes. He was a twenty-one-year-old white kid from a hickville town in Georgia still aching for his momma to comfort him.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, clearing the emotion from his throat.
“What’s wrong?”
He wiped his eyes. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Hearing her concern gutted him. His dad always teased him about being a momma’s boy, but not in a demeaning way. It was more playful. His dad knew if anything ever happened to him, Blaise would take care of himself and his mom.
“I’m fine.” He reread the Watcher’s note. “Just ready for this to be over.”
“Soon, honey. All your hard work is going to pay off soon, and then you’ll be living your dream.” Her excitement trickled through the phone. “That’s why I’m calling. Mr. Morris helped me arrange our tickets. We’re flying into New York the morning before the draft.” Blaise heard his father in the background yelling about finding the best pizza place. “All your daddy can think about is food.” She giggled. “I bought a new dress. Do you want me to send you a picture?”
“Sure.” Blaise stretched out his legs. “Are you sure Dad should be flying?”
“Honey”—his mom’s voice dropped in volume—“this is all your daddy is looking forward to. His nurses say it’s helping him fight the cancer.”
The colon cancer had ravaged his father’s body, taking with it the strength of the man Blaise admired more than anyone else in his life. The diagnosis had stolen not only his father’s health but also his job at the plant. The small company couldn’t afford to keep him, and his parents’ insurance lapsed. Blaise had been using part of his scholarship money to help pay the bills, but it wasn’t enough. When his agent called and said he was being considered for a second-round draft pick, Blaise knew it would answer his family’s problems.
His eyes found the email and he balled his fists. There was one thing keeping him from helping his parents. One thing capable of sending his dream crashing down around him. His phone vibrated against his cheek. He pulled it away and saw the photo his mom had sent him of her dress. It was blue and matched her eyes.
“It’s beautiful, Mom.”
“You think so?”
“I do.” He didn’t know how she had paid for it, but he would put another deposit in their bank account to cover the cost.
“Oh, honey, we’re just so proud of you.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Thanks, Mom.”
If only she knew the truth. Devastation would replace her pride. It would break her heart. And it would kill his father.
