Shiver Page 7

  “Has anyone mentioned me?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. But I doubt he’d play such a game with you. An author by the name of Noah Linton wants my story. He’s not like many of the people who come here to interview me. For him, it’s not about the scoop. It’s not about the crimes that put me here. It’s the psychology of the situation that intrigues him.”

  “The psychology of it?”

  “He knows that I’m what you’d call a model prisoner. He wonders if marriage and fatherhood somehow rehabilitated me. Wonders why someone so seemingly normal as your mother would commit herself to me. Wonders how it must be for you to have me as your dad; how that would affect and shape a person. In that sense, he wants to profile us, which means finding out everything he can about us. He doesn’t really see us as people. We’re subjects to be viewed, considered, and examined. But not toyed with, so I don’t think he’s Smith.”

  “Finch contacted me and Mom, asking for an interview.”

  “I thought he might,” muttered Michael, expression darkening.

  “Is there anyone else?”

  He shook his head.

  I chewed my inner cheek. “Someone who fits Ricky Tate’s description went to Redwater, posing as someone I’d met in a club and trying to milk people for information about me.”

  Michael’s eyes again flared for the briefest moment. “As you may remember from Ricky’s letters to you, his syntax is atrocious, and his word range isn’t very wide. Does Smith show such weaknesses?”

  “The grammar could be better, and there’s a lot of repetition when it comes to wording and phrases. There’s also a lot of slang and clunky sentences, like someone talking as opposed to writing.”

  “Ricky’s quite the fan of slang.”

  “But you’re not convinced it’s him,” I sensed.

  “He’s very impulsive. Childish. Simple-minded. It’s difficult to imagine him coming up with the idea of taunting you this way, let alone having the patience to carry out such a plan. But it’s not impossible that it’s him. And if he poked around Redwater, fishing for information, there must have been a reason for that. It could simply be that he was hoping you’d do exactly what you’re doing now and tell me about it—then he’d have my attention.” Michael fell silent as Clear came out of the restrooms, but she went to a vending machine. “Are there any other people who you think might have done this? One of the Buchanans, maybe?”

  “I really don’t know. If one of them somehow discovered I was a writer, they’d be more likely to expose the information to fuck up my life than to play games with me.”

  “I agree. I’m guessing you haven’t told your mother any of this.”

  “She’d worry.”

  He nodded. “Yes, she would. We’ll keep this to ourselves for now. You may need to tell her at some point.”

  He was right, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. “Ricky gave you his address so that you could reply to his letters, right?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t keep his letters and I can’t recall his address. I do remember that he lives in Jacksonville with his mother. Don’t go looking for him, Kensey. Be smart.” He might have said more, but then Clear neared.

  Retaking her seat, she smiled. “So, what are we talking about?”

  A little later, when the visitation was over, Clear gave him yet another hug. Turning to me, he asked, “Can I get a hug, baby?”

  I noticed the plea in Clear’s tearing eyes. I gave him a hug, wordlessly accepting his kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you, angel,” he said with a smile. “Come see me again soon.”

  Clear sniffled as we were repeatedly buzzed through one door after another. It wasn’t until we were back in the parking lot that I felt like I could take a real breath. The place had always made me feel suffocated and confined.

  When we finally drove out of the gates, the knot in my stomach loosened. It never got easier to go there. Had never been the norm for me the way it was for Clear.

  She fell asleep on the drive home, which was quite typical. The visits exhausted her more than she liked to admit. The silence gave me a chance to think on all Michael had said.

  He was right about Ricky; the little shit-stain didn’t seem to have the patience or self-control to carry out this crap. But people changed, didn’t they? He’d only been a teenager when he first came crashing into my life. He’d be twenty-nine now. Possibly more mature. Possibly more in control of himself.

  For me, it seemed far too much of a coincidence that he’d be hanging around Redwater at the same time as I being … what was the right term for it? Taunted? Targeted? Toyed with? Ricky had done all three of those things to me once before. I was pretty sure he was now doing them again.

  When we eventually pulled up outside Clear’s house, I gently shook her awake. “Mom, you’re home.”

  With a slight jerk, she lifted her head. “Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Do you want to come inside?”

  “No, thanks.” I wanted to get home and shower. Wanted to wash off the feel and scents of the prison. Besides … “I have work to do. This story won’t write itself.”

  She smiled. “Then get writing it.” She sighed. “You know, it hits me hard sometimes when I think that I’ll never get to do normal things with your dad like eat a meal with him, watch TV with him, take you on a picnic, or even ever be alone with him. I don’t regret marrying him, but I wish things were different.” She squeezed my hand. “Thank you for coming with me. I know you find it hard. I can understand why. But he needs us, Kensey. If he didn’t have us, he’d have no one. And I think that would kill him.” With that, Clear hopped out of the car.

  I waited until she was safely inside the house before I drove off. Unlike her, I wasn’t so sure it would kill Michael to be without us, but he probably did need us in his way. We were his biggest link to the outside world. We were his chance at having some sort of normality.

  It honestly was difficult not to feel a modicum of sympathy for someone who couldn’t enjoy the simple freedom that I had right then. Who had no real rights, who were disallowed such a simple thing as choice, who woke up each day knowing it could be the day that someone told them their death had been scheduled. He’d told me once how the guards did cruel stuff like wake people with news that they would face their doom that day … only to then later laugh that it was a ‘joke.’ I wasn’t sure if, in their place, I’d keep my sanity.

  Maybe it made me a shitty person that I could feel a dot of sympathy for Michael; maybe it just made me human. I didn’t know. But I’d long ago come to terms with it, just as I’d long ago come to terms with the fact that I cared for the little boy he’d once been. The boy who’d had his innocence stripped from him and been subjected to the kind of abuse that sickened and devastated me. It was—

  My eyelids flickered as red and blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror. Fuck. I wasn’t in the least bit surprised to see that Joshua Buchanan was behind the wheel, gesturing for me to pull over. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Wouldn’t be the last. He never issued any fines or tried charging me with anything. It seemed that he just did it to simply amuse himself.

  I flashed my emergency lights to signal that I’d pull over, but I waited until we reached a well-lit, very public street. Joshua parked behind me, lights still flashing, and climbed out of the car. He slowly strode my way, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  I lowered my window and gave him a breezy smile. “Officer Buchanan.” The guy would love it if I did what he wanted—rant, rave, and resist. Which was why I always played along, calm as ever, even as I imagined slamming him in the gut with his own baton. Karma had better be the bitch she was rumored to be, because he needed a serious ass-kicking.

  Expression dark and resentful, he stared down at me. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  Because you’re a shithead of epic proportions, enjoy abusing your position of
power, and probably bully people to compensate for having a tiny dick, I wanted to say. Instead, I simply replied, “No.”

  “License and registration.”

  As always, I wordlessly dug them out of my glove compartment and handed them over. As always, he took his time checking them over.

  Finally, he handed them back to me. “Do you know how fast you were driving?”

  “Forty miles per hour.” Which wasn’t over the speed limit.

  “You’re positive of that?”

  “I’m very road conscious.”

  He leaned forward, and his nostrils flared. “Have you been drinking?”

  I frowned. “No.”

  “I smell alcohol on your breath. Step out of the car, please.”

  “What?” This was new. “You have to be kidding.”

  “Step out of the car.”

  Ass-licking shit-stain. Apparently, he was working off-script today. Grinding my teeth, I hopped out of the car, reminding myself he wasn’t worth jail time.

  “I’m going to need you to take a breathalyzer test,” he told me.

  Wordlessly, I cooperated with his request, unwilling to do anything that would give him an excuse to charge me with something. Inside, I seethed, wondering if I should invest in a voodoo doll. I’d heard they sometimes worked.

  “Well, it seems you’ve passed the test,” he said, mock surprised. We both knew this was just a game to him. “Still, I’m very sure I smelled alcohol in your car. You don’t mind if I conduct a search of your vehicle, do you?”

  Yes, I absolutely did mind. Who wouldn’t? “I don’t consent to a search of my private property.” Which meant that if he did find anything he considered contraband, it would be attained through an illegal search.

  He clenched his jaw and advanced on me, backing me against the car. It killed me not to knee the jerk in the balls and shove him away from me, but it was killing Joshua more that I didn’t rise to the provocation—that gave me the strength to stay cool and composed.

  As he stared directly into my eyes, his own blazed with anger. And I knew why. Because each time he looked into the same mismatched eyes that his father had possessed, Joshua was reminded that Maxwell cheated on Joshua’s mother and betrayed his entire family. I understood Joshua’s anger. I just didn’t agree with how he chose to vent it.

  “There’ll come a day when I catch you on something, and then I’ll be on your ass like a shot.”

  It genuinely confused me that he didn’t make up some bullshit charge. It was like he enjoyed abusing his power, but he wouldn’t go beyond a certain point—like he had a code, and he wouldn’t break it even for me. Maybe he got the code from his uncle Donald, who could have easily planted drugs at my mother’s house during his raids but never did.

  “Am I free to go?” I asked calmly.

  He put his face closer to mine. “You think I can’t see how bad you want to slap me right now? You think I don’t know exactly how much it’s costing you not to react?”

  “You think I can’t see how much it drives you insane that I don’t?”

  He stepped closer, eating up that last bit of distance between us.

  “I’d really back up if I were you. You’ve been so focused on me that your cop senses didn’t pick up on the people who’ve been creeping closer. I’ll be surprised if there isn’t at least one person recording this with their cell phone.” I must have been right, because after his eyes swept the crowd, he took two slow steps back. But the bastard smirked at me.

  “Always a pleasure, Miss Lyons. Drive safely.”

  I slid into my car, switched on the engine, and merged into the traffic. Only then did I let out my anger in a long hiss. I was definitely getting a voodoo doll.

  I fantasized about all the delightful ways I could hurt him as I drove home, where I then showered and changed. I was just about to make dinner when Sarah arrived.

  Without even a hello, she barged right in and said, “Okay, I did some digging on Blake Mercier.”

  I closed the door. “Why?”

  “Because if a guy is showing interest in you at the same time that another person is fucking with your head, I want to be as sure as I can be that the two people aren’t one and the same. Besides, Blake’s been asking questions about you—I figure turnabout is fair play.”

  I inclined my head, conceding that.

  “I know you don’t think that Smith is Blake. You’re probably right. At this point, I think we can be sure that Ricky is our guy. But I wanted to learn what I could about Blake anyway.”

  I sighed, uninterested. Okay, that was a total lie. I was extremely interested—I just didn’t like said interest. He was so unreadable that he gave my curious streak a serious workout. “Well, what did you hear?”

  She sat on the armchair. “Not a lot. He’s very private. Kind of like you. Considering he’s loaded, I thought he might have come from a wealthy family. He hasn’t. The Merciers are firmly middle class—his dad ran an antique store up until he died, and his stepmother is an event planner. I couldn’t find out anything about his biological mother—she doesn’t seem to be in the picture.”

  Pausing, Sarah crossed one leg over the other. “But he has his fingers in a lot of pies. He invests in some businesses, making them better. Others he goes after like the owners fucked his mother or something; then he takes those businesses apart.”

  I felt my brow furrow. “Really?”

  “You’ve probably heard the rumors that not all his businesses are entirely legal. People also say he has some really shady connections, but I don’t know how true those things are. I know he built some of his businesses from the ground up. And get this: the guy owns the Vault.”

  My brows shot up. The Vault was one of the biggest hotspots in Redwater City. The exclusive, 24-hour club hosted special events and brought in local celebrities. It was also a club that catered to many tastes. Sadly, neither me nor Sarah could afford the membership price.

  Dueling Pianos shows were held on the rooftop area, where comedians also regularly performed. The main floor was allegedly amazing, complete with fog machines, spotlights, and top DJs. There was also a Burlesque floor, which was wildly popular. “Do you think the rumors about the basement are true?”

  Sarah grinned. “You mean that it’s a sex club—or sex floor, I should say? Maybe. I mean, I’ve heard that people have to pay a whole other membership fee to have access to the basement. I’d sure like to go see for myself. It’s said that a little BDSM activity goes on down there, but nothing heavy or dark—it’s apparently all about fun. That’s what I heard anyway. It could be just speculation.”

  I found myself wondering which, if any, of the Vault’s floors catered to Blake’s tastes. “I had coffee with him at Cash’s diner yesterday.”

  Sarah gaped. “And you’re only telling me this now, why?”

  I shrugged. “It didn’t seem important.”

  She edged forward in her seat. “Well, who asked who to go for coffee?”

  “Blake pulled up outside the convenience store near the diner and asked me to get in the car. Said he wanted us to talk. I refused to go with him, so he suggested we talk in the diner.”

  Sarah waved her hand, encouraging me to continue. “And? What did he want?”

  “In sum, one night.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “You’re worth more than that.”

  I nodded. “He said he couldn’t give me a relationship even if he wanted to, whatever that means.”

  “I never heard any women’s names mixed with his. From what my cousin told me, Blake is a hit and run kind of guy, which is very disappointing.” She took a long breath. “Nothing about Blake screams ‘potential stalker’ to me, but I think you can agree we should be looking at Ricky Tate. It has to be him.”

  “I agree. You remember what he looks like, right?”

  “Hard to forget someone who once screamed at you like a freak while holding a sledgehammer.”

  True. “Good. We’ll both keep our eye out
for him.” Someone would spot him sooner or later. Then I’d pounce on the little fucker.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Miss Lyons?”

  Halfway up the path leading to the bar, I turned to see a balding man with close-set eyes and a jowly face coming toward me, wiping a hand down the blazer of his gray suit. My inner alarms dinged. “What do you want?”

  If he was fazed by my rudeness, he didn’t show it. “I left some voicemails on your phone. I’m Noah Linton.”

  I didn’t shake the hand he held out. “Goodbye, Mr. Linton.” I spun on my heel and headed for the bar.

  “Wait!” He hurried to match my stride. “Your stepfather did warn me that you don’t do interviews, but I’m not looking for a story. I wish to explore—”

  “I really don’t care, Mr. Linton. If you want to ponder the workings of Michael Bale’s mind, you don’t need me for that.”

  “Interesting that you refer to him by his name, not ‘my stepfather,’” he mused.

  “Is it?”

  “I’ve spent many years delving into the criminal mind. I think sociopaths are wildly misunderstood.”

  That brought me up short. I double-blinked. “Misunderstood?”

  “Not all of them kill, just like not all killers are sociopaths. What they like is power. People have different definitions of power—money, fame, respect, etc. For some, the ultimate power is the control over whether someone lives or dies.”

  “Then those particular people should have been surgeons. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

  “Perhaps we could have coffee together. I have a cab waiting just there. We could go wherever you’d like and—”

  “No.” I reached the bar, but I didn’t open the door. I didn’t want him stepping a single foot inside. “Leave, Linton. Don’t waste time out of our lives again.”

  “But—”

  “Everything okay here?” clipped Cade, walking out of CCC while rubbing his hands on an oily rag.

  Linton nervously adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “Yes, of course. We’re just talking. And you are?”