Squeezing his eyes shut, Rivers switched his thoughts to the night of the altercation, the night Megan had vanished. He saw nothing, felt nothing. Whatever secrets the gloves held about the evening Megan disappeared, they were keeping.
Rivers stripped them off, pulling them inside out. This is certifiable, you know it is.
He noticed the stain then, a dark red blotch on the inside of the left palm. Blood. Cahill’s? Or someone else’s?
“Fuck.” He couldn’t take them to the lab without admitting he’d picked up the pair out of protocol, not collecting them as evidence. And they were tainted with his own damned DNA. Even if they could be tied to the crime, if the blood was maybe Megan’s, which seemed highly unlikely, a defense attorney would turn him inside out on how he’d procured the gloves. There was no explaining it away. Furious with himself, he tossed the gloves onto the counter, walked around a post to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out another bottle of beer. He was sweating and breathing hard, as if he’d picked up that damned axe in his first vision and swung it, over and over again.
“Dumb ass,” he muttered before opening the bottle and taking a long, cold swallow. Closing his eyes, he counted to fifty. Then a hundred. His heart rate slowed, but he still felt beads of sweat around his hairline.
Shaking off the images, he carried his beer to the living room window and past the small yard to the street beyond. Snow was falling, thick and heavy, dancing in the blue glow from the streetlamp. One of his neighbors on the far side of the cul-de-sac was backing out, garage door rolling down, crimson brake lights flashing as the back tires of the old Cadillac reached the sidewalk. He snapped his blinds shut and rubbed the back of his neck, then finished his beer.
Rivers knew he was missing something, something he couldn’t feel in the personal items. Something just out of reach.
Oh, hell.
Maybe Astrid had been right.
Maybe he was sick. Or perverted. Or bat-shit crazy.
Stealing personal things, trying to get a sense of the owners from them, nosing around in their most private thoughts, attempting to learn more about an ongoing case, risking his reputation and his job . . . that wasn’t the definition of sanity.
Not by anyone’s standards.
Astrid’s warning floated back to him.
Some secrets are better kept locked away.
CHAPTER 35
What had James said?
“No, Sophia, don’t come.”
The horrid words rang in her ears as she started her car and backed out of her parking slot at the apartment building.
Don’t come? He was rejecting her?
“Ridiculous,” she muttered, her breath fogging in the frigid interior. As she turned the heat on full blast, she caught a movement in the unit that sat catty-corner from her own, the larger apartment that jutted out to form an L around the edge of the parking lot: the owner’s unit. The curtains were open, lights on, yapping, piece-of-shit dog standing at attention, flashing his teeth on the back of Phoebe Matrix’s couch.
As ever.
The landlady was a busybody and a pain in the ass. Watching. Always watching. And even showing up at James’s inn. Once when Sophia was tending the counter in the Christmas shop attached to the café, Phoebe had the nerve to come in and purchase little snow booties for the dog. All the while she’d been in the shop, she’d lingered, the cur in his hand-knit sweater under her arm as she’d fingered several tree ornaments, perused the Christmas cards, and touched a festive display of a miniature town complete with a tiny train that actually circled the small houses on a perfect little track. Of course, she’d kept an eye on Sophia, even asking a coworker about her.
As if the old bat knew what Sophia was up to.
She’d even tried to chat with Sophia at the register, her purse flopping open as she’d counted out the exact change. Sophia had gained a glimpse inside: tissues, lipstick, notepad, rain bonnet, and EpiPen; a glasses case was visible for just a second.
Driving away from the apartment building, Sophia shoved the nosy old woman out of her mind, at least for the moment. The old busybody could be dealt with later. Right now, Sophia had more important things to think about: specifically, James. What the hell was he thinking?
Her gloved hands tightened over the wheel.
She knew James wanted her.
Had always known.
From the first time they’d met.
But other people always seemed to get in the way, she thought sourly as she drove out of town, her windshield still showing spots of ice, her wipers scraping as they batted at the ever-falling snow, her once-broken toe starting to throb from the too-tight boots. She should have worn the suede ones, but these were sexier, and James would appreciate the effort—he always did.
A song was playing on the radio, some Christmas oldie that reminded her of growing up as a lonely child in Fresno, but she refused to think about that now.
“No, Sophia, don’t come.”
“Like hell,” she ground out as she buzzed through town, gunning the vehicle as a light turned amber. Her phone jangled, and she saw that it was Donna, her boss at the inn, probably calling her to come to the bar and fill in. Well, forget that. She ignored the call. Didn’t pick up.
She had to keep her thoughts straight, make sure she didn’t trip up. James was wavering. She could feel it, and that just couldn’t happen. She blew out a breath. Right now, it seemed as if everyone was against her, creating roadblocks. At work, she caught the sidelong glances. Both Zena and Donna were watching her as she mixed drinks. She caught them staring, and that miserable foreman, Knowlton, wasn’t her friend, either. She’d seen the way his eyes tracked her, and it wasn’t in the
