See No Evil

The dead girls were only fourteen. Beaten to death on the grounds of a sacred place, crawling inside to die in front of Jesus, the only sanctuary they had.

Then he learned that his mentor, Detective Wayne Crutcher, who had helped him with his exam and smoothed Connor’s path into his move from street cop to detective, had been taking bribes to look away.

Connor didn’t want to believe it.

“Who was that guy?” he asked Wayne. He’d been quietly following him for weeks, compiling evidence he didn’t know yet how he was going to use. But he saw the exchange. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Wayne had been surprised to see Connor, though he hid it well. “A snitch.”

“We pay snitches. They don’t pay us.”

As he said it, Connor realized he’d signed his death warrant. But he didn’t budge.

He pictured his little sister Lucy’s face superimposed on the dead girls. The dead girls deserved justice as much as anyone.

Wayne’s face hardened. “Walk away, Kincaid.”

Connor still didn’t know exactly what it was that set him off. If it was the hard smirk on Wayne’s face or the indifference in his bleak eyes. Connor struck him across the face. Once, twice, three times before the detective punched back.

The fight brought down Internal Affairs. Both Connor and Wayne clammed up and called in their union representatives. Connor’s direct supervisor, Lieutenant Todd, came to Connor at his house. “Crutcher has been transferred to the Northeast substation. He won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Transferred? That doesn’t solve the problem.”

“What do you suggest I do? Go to Internal Affairs and have them up my ass and yours? I’ve fixed the problem.”

In the end, Connor couldn’t walk away, even if he wanted to. Internal Affairs came to him. He turned over the documentation he’d compiled, thinking it would end there.

It didn’t.

Connor was no longer a cop because of Julia. And yet the sexy counselor slept on the other side of his door, and he stood here with a semi-hard-on and thoughts of taking her into his bed playing with his mind.

For the second time in as many days he took a cold shower.

The stainless-steel blade had been sharpened to its maximum, the long straight edge curving slightly toward the deadly point. The shiny blade reflected the moonlight that filtered through the long, narrow windows of the Spanish-style mansion she’d lived in since her mother deserted her ten years ago.

Faye’s father wasn’t home, not that it would matter if he were-Blaine Kessler had virtually ignored her since her birth. He had come to her six times without a thought to being caught. Meanwhile, her father was usually in his own room with his own woman.

The one who came to see her was an angel. It wouldn’t surprise Faye if no one could see him but her, because she was the one he’d chosen.

“Why aren’t you with Cami?” she’d asked the second time he came to her house and made love to her under her father’s roof. The night Skip had shot the teacher in the eyes and she had watched.

“Why would you ask that?” His fingers skimmed her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.

“She’s beautiful.” Her words came out a croak. The truth was ugly, like she was. Men wanted Cami because she was beautiful and sexy.

“Cami is selfish,” he said. “Her own pleasure is more important than mine.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“You think I’m lying?”

Faye shook her head.

He kissed her. That night, like tonight, had a near full moon. “You are precious to me. Cami is important, but you are my rock. I trust you. You would never betray me.”

“Never.”

“That’s why no one can know about this.”

“I understand.”

“Even Cami.”

“I didn’t tell her last time.”

“I know.” He kissed her, touched her gently. “Do you trust me?”

Her lip trembled. “Yes.”

He picked up her knife. “I trust you.” He handed her the blade. She stared at it, blinded by the power of the steel. One slice and he’d be gone, she’d be gone. “Cut me,” he whispered, his hot breath against her face.

He rolled over to his back, his arms outstretched. She straddled his naked body, slid onto him, gasping at the invasion within her. She lowered her hand, the hand wrapped tight around the blade’s pearl handle. Showed him the knife, just as he told her the first time. He licked his lips, closed his eyes.

“Now.”

She sliced his skin, a mere sliver, but the pain of the sudden piercing made him gasp, tremble, and grow harder within her. The sight of the blood, dark in the moonlight, excited her and she rubbed her chest against his, his blood on her, the thrill that he trusted her with his life, that one slice too deep and he would be gone, his blood on her hands, in her body, staining her soul.

They rose together, peaked, and as he toppled over the edge she cut him once more and tasted his coppery heat.

Every time it was deeper, harder, rougher. The pain of the first night was nothing compared to today. When would it stop? Faye didn’t want it to. But tonight he’d lost blood and slept in her bed, something he’d never done before. She had him all to herself and she lay awake and stared at him through the night. She touched his hair. He was real. When he woke, she apologized, she hadn’t meant to go too far, they’d gotten carried away.

“It was heaven, my darling,” he said. “I’m fine. Better than fine. You make me alive.”

Faye had never felt alive. She stared at the blade. Just once. One more time…

Gently, carefully, she sliced her arm and watched, enchanted, as blood seeped out and dripped onto her sheets.

THIRTEEN

Julia sat up abruptly, disoriented. She wasn’t in her own room. She wasn’t in her house. Her head was thick with sleep and a dull fog. How many beers had she had last night?

She looked around, fearful she’d done something really stupid. Like sleep with Connor Kincaid. Alcohol stripped away inhibitions, and he’d been kind to her. She’d confided in him things she hadn’t been able to share with anyone else.

And he was really, really nice to look at.

“Dumb,” she mumbled. She’d handed Connor Kincaid ammunition to use against her down the road. Why did she feel she could trust him? He’d made no secret what he thought of her.

But he’d actually been nice last night.

She glanced around the living room. It didn’t look like she’d done anything stupid. And she remembered the night before, talking with Dillon about Emily’s case, eating Mexican food with Connor, him driving her home-but she wasn’t home.

She’d fallen asleep in his truck. When he woke her up, she’d looked at his porch and said, “This isn’t my house.”

“I know. I asked, but you fell asleep. Where do you live?”

“La Jolla.”

“That’s thirty minutes from here. And I’m beat.”

“Take me to my car,” she said.

“You’re too tired to drive.”

“I have my second wind.”