D for Dead, page 10
‘We’re all good. Amy, I mean, uh, Ms Gallaty, has been looking after me fine.’
Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re supposed to be looking after her.’
‘Well, yeah, I have. I meant she made me coffee and stuff. We watched TV, but I was keeping an eye on her.’ Boaz paused at Sullivan’s scowl, before adding with a suggestive hint. ‘I made sure I kept a real good eye on her.’
Although he didn’t bite, Amy swore Sullivan’s nostrils flared.
‘There hasn’t been any trouble,’ she told him, not wanting him to get the wrong idea.
Sullivan nodded, continuing to glare at Boaz. ‘I’ll take it from here,’ he said, his tone lighter than his expression.
‘But I thought Peterson was–’
‘Peterson isn’t coming. I said I’ll take it from here.’
‘What do you mean he isn’t–?’
‘I told you I’ll take it from here.’
For the first time Sullivan looked over at Amy, his dark eyes intense and unreadable.
She busied herself while he saw Boaz out, clearing away cups and filling the kitchen sink with soapy water. Hearing the door close and lock, she glanced over. Sullivan’s expression had softened and he met her eyes with a lazy cat stare. Something stirred inside her.
He had traded his suit for jeans and a T-shirt, suggesting he wasn’t punching the clock, but still had his sidearm resting snugly against his hip and a laptop bag under one arm.
‘You didn’t have to be so rude to him,’ she pointed out. ‘He was just doing his job.’
‘The guy is an idiot.’
He closed the distance between them, setting the laptop bag down and leaning back against the work surface, watching her as she washed up. Huckleberry had followed him through and sat patiently at his side; they both looked far too comfortable in her kitchen.
Amy felt heat rise up her neck.
‘So how come you’re here?’ she asked lightly.
‘I’m watching you.’
‘I’d have thought you’d have had more important things to do than watch me.’
‘Not right now.’
‘Okay. I thought there was supposed to be another officer. Peterson?’
Sullivan reached down, stroked Huckleberry’s head.
‘His kid had an epileptic episode earlier and he’s at the hospital. You were supposed to get Special Agent Rivers as a replacement. I took the shift instead.’
His lips curved slightly, but his eyes remained unreadable. Amy swallowed heavily, her kitchen feeling far too warm. She was pleased it wasn’t Rivers. She didn’t like him or want him back in her apartment. So instead she got Sullivan, the detective she was attracted to. And who was looking at her now, suggesting the feeling was mutual.
He’s here professionally. Stop being an idiot. Nothing is going to happen.
He was going to be in her apartment all night.
Why does that make you feel nervous? You’ve spent time alone with him before.
Because something had shifted. Amy wasn’t sure what exactly. There was a tension between them that hadn’t been there before.
I need a drink.
Pulling open the refrigerator door she reached for a beer. ‘Want one?’ she offered.
He hesitated for a brief moment. ‘Sure.’
She took out a second, popped the tabs and handed him one.
His hand brushed hers briefly and, feeling the charge, she pulled away, taking a long drag.
Christ, Amy.
There had been no man in her life since David. He had been enough of a head fuck to make her want to take a break. Since him she had poured herself into her writing. Why was she now feeling this way?
You don’t know if there’s a wife at home.
No ring, she remembered.
That didn’t mean anything. He could be married and not wearing a ring, and if no wife, there could be a girlfriend.
‘Well, I hope I haven’t messed up any plans you might have had. I wouldn’t want to upset your wife… girlfriend?’
‘You haven’t. I’m not married.’
He gave her a measured look, and she suspected he knew exactly what was on her mind.
Her cheeks heated.
Subtle, Amy. Real subtle.
Feeling uncomfortably warm and needing breathing space, she excused herself to take a shower.
Bedroom door closed, she perched on the edge of the mattress and rubbed her hands over her face.
What the hell was going on?
The most turbulent thing in her life at the moment should have been the release of her new book. Instead she found herself centre stage in a murder investigation and attracted to the detective leading it.
Her thoughts remained on Sullivan as she soaped herself in the shower, the warm spray soothing and de-stressing her frazzled mind.
He was here to keep her safe, not get in her pants. She would get dressed, go back into the living room and nothing was going to happen.
But you want it to.
Ignoring the irritating voice in her head she took time drying her hair, tying it back into a low knot, moisturising and dressing, annoyed with herself for briefly questioning her outfit choice of sweats and a T-shirt.
He was on the couch working on his laptop when she emerged from the bedroom, beer bottle hooked in one hand while he used the other to type.
Amy padded through to the kitchen, collected her own bottle from the counter. Although she didn’t have much appetite, she guessed she needed to eat. She opened the refrigerator and eyed the pizza she had bought earlier, before glancing back at Sullivan.
‘You hungry?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’ He didn’t look up. ‘I already ordered Chinese.’
‘Oh, okay.’
He was making himself at home.
‘I ordered enough in case you hadn’t eaten.’ Now he looked up, meeting her eyes. ‘You like Chinese, right?’
‘Sure.’
Taking over her apartment, ordering Chinese; he was getting comfortable.
‘What are you up to?’ she asked, nodding at the computer for want of distraction.
‘Running over stuff.’
‘To do with the case?’
He shot her a look; didn’t reply.
‘If it’s to do with the case, I have a right to know.’
There was an edge to her voice, and it irritated her. She didn’t want to be one of those whiny self-pitying types she avoided writing about.
‘Come here.’ Sullivan patted the seat beside him.
Tentatively Amy ventured across and sat down.
Not too close.
But still close enough she could smell the faint scent of soap and cologne.
Focus, Amy.
Glancing at the computer screen, she recognised the website of her publishing firm, Maxwell Grey. The page was open on staff profiles.
‘Anyone stand out?’ Sullivan asked. ‘They’re a small firm, so I’m guessing they’ve all been involved in your books. Have any of them ever shown a little too much interest in you? No one there you’ve pissed off?’
Amy studied the pictures. She recognised most of their faces, knew some better than others. Her eyes dropped to the picture of Shannon Castle, her publisher’s personal assistant. How many times had she made small talk with her? And now she was dead; the victim of a book she had helped to publish.
‘They are all nice people. Professional, friendly, easy to work with. I honestly can’t think of a single person there who would have a problem with me. Or want to hurt Shannon.’
‘We met with the Maxwell Grey brothers today. They were genuinely shocked about Shannon Castle. She’d worked for them a while.’
‘Yeah, she was there when my first book was published.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘We weren’t friends, but we would always chat when I saw her. She had a close family – have they…?’
‘They’ve been told.’
‘I should send flowers or a note. I met her mom once, bumped into them when they were shopping. They’ll be taking this hard. Shannon, she didn’t deserve this.’
‘No, she didn’t.’
Amy’s eyes went wide. ‘Do they blame me? I wrote the book. It was my book that got her killed.’
‘No, it was the person who shot her who got her killed,’ Sullivan said firmly. ‘Amy, look at me.’
Distracted, Amy continued to stare blankly at the picture of Shannon on the screen.
Sullivan clicked off the page, set the laptop down on the coffee table.
‘Amy, look at me,’ he repeated.
As his voice registered, she glanced up.
‘Don’t blame yourself for this. If it hadn’t been your books, there would have been another trigger. People don’t kill because they watch TV or read; they kill because they’re sick. Whoever we’re looking for would have done it anyway.’
‘I guess.’
There was a pause.
‘You ever get fan mail?’
‘Some.’
‘You keep it?’
‘Sure. I mean, I’ve had emails I’ve deleted, but letters? I’ve kept those. It feels wrong to throw them out.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘Sure.’
She kept the letters in a shoebox, stashed away on one of the top shelves of her bedroom closet. Pulling the box down, she took it through to Sullivan, sitting back on the couch as he lifted the lid and pulled the letters out.
There were maybe thirty or forty, some yellowed with age, some typed, others handwritten. A few fans had written to her time and again; others had sent just the one letter.
Sullivan started rooting through them, reading each one. Scanning over a particularly flattering letter from a male fan, he grinned, and Amy’s face flushed.
She drew her knees up to her chin, hugging her arms around her legs and watched him read, taking the opportunity to study him. What was his story, she wondered. What made him tick? He had a southern accent. What had brought him to Oregon? Did he have family here?
He picked up another letter, his brow furrowing as he started to read.
‘Who sent this one?’
Amy glanced at the print. It was from one of her fans who aspired to be a writer, one of the few who always typed, never handwrote. She got a letter after the release of each book and they were always signed ‘X’.
‘I don’t know. There is never a name.’
‘You’ve got more than one letter from this guy?’
‘Yeah, there’s usually one after each book. How do you know it’s a guy?’
‘What about a postmark?’
‘Umm… local, I think. Why?’
Sullivan glanced over the letter again.
‘Do the letters come here or to your publisher?’
‘My publisher gets them and passes them on. Why?’
He read from the page.
‘We have a connection, Amy. We both have that darkness living inside us. You’ve channelled yours into your stories and brought them to life. I need to learn how to use mine before it spirals out of control. There are things I would like to do and the need inside me is growing. I must take my darkness and my desires and make things happen.’
Sullivan glanced up at Amy. ‘You really believe he’s talking about writing a book?’
‘Isn’t he?’
At Sullivan’s raised eyebrows, she reddened, feeling stupid she’d never thought anything of the letters before. Her fans tended to say some weird stuff now and again. She honestly hadn’t read anything into it. But now he had put a different spin on it, the words had taken on a sinister edge.
Sullivan picked up the shoebox, starting flicking through the remaining letters. He shot another glance at Amy, his lips twisting.
‘Guess we’d better see what else Mr X has to say.’
15
The air around her was cool and damp, thick with a musty, earthy scent. Something else clung to it: another smell. Like copper or rust. As she took a further step down, her sense of foreboding grew. The stairs were steep and narrow; the only light was coming from an open door at the bottom. A faint bulb flickered, threatening to disappear altogether.
She should turn and go, before anything bad happened. Instead she was compelled to continue; driven on by an overwhelming need to know what was in the room at the bottom of the stairs.
As she neared, her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest. The only other noises were the sound of her own quiet footsteps, each one much louder in the silence than she wanted them to be and, as she got closer, the monotonous drip, she guessed from a tap.
The coppery smell was growing stronger, clogging her nose and her throat. She should go. Although her head instructed her to leave, her feet continued, and she couldn’t stop them.
The light from the room flickered again and she heard the sound of shuffling and what she thought was a low moan.
Stop. Go back.
Her foot hit the final step and then she was standing on the stone floor, a few feet away from the room, its heavy wooden door wide open.
She paused, her shoulders tense, fists clenched by her sides. Her breathing was too loud and she tried to steady it. She crept along the passage, her legs leaden, each step taking seconds, but feeling like minutes.
Readying herself, she peered through the door. And screamed.
Amy shot upright in bed.
Something, someone grabbed hold of her by the shoulders.
Panicking in their firm grip she screamed again, thrashing out wildly with her fists.
‘Hey! Stop it.’ A male voice, one she recognised, sounded annoyed. ‘It’s Sullivan.’
He let go of her shoulders; caught hold of her wrists.
‘Let me go.’
‘Then quit hitting me.’
It was dark, but she could make out his silhouette in front of her. Taking a moment, she drew a deep breath, forced herself to relax. Her skin was hot and clammy; sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip; droplets slid down her back, between her breasts.
It was okay. She was in her apartment, in her bed. The long curtains drawn across the open balcony door billowed in the breeze. She could hear the reassuring tick of her alarm clock, smell the familiar scents of her room: her perfumes and creams, the fabric conditioner on her sheets. On the floor beside the bed, Huckleberry let out a woof.
Sullivan let go of her wrists, leaned past her to switch on the night lamp. Amy caught the familiar scent of his cologne. It mingled with the feminine scents in the room, jangling her senses.
Soft light fell on the room. Sullivan sat back on her bed, a scowl on his face.
‘What the hell was that about?’ he demanded, dark eyes glaring.
Conscious she was only wearing a thin camisole Amy pulled the sheet higher. ‘It was just a nightmare.’
‘Just a nightmare?’ He scrubbed his hand over his jaw, dragged it back through his hair. ‘You were screaming like a banshee. Scared the crap out of me and the dog.’
‘Umm… sorry?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What do you want me to say? I have nightmares. I can’t control what happens when I fall asleep.’
He studied her for a moment, drew in a deep breath. She had shaken him, Amy could see that now, and it made her feel foolish.
‘You get these nightmares often?’ Sullivan asked, his tone softening.
‘Kind of.’
‘Since the murders started?’
‘Yeah. I mean, I used to get them all the time, then they stopped… until last week.’
He nodded. ‘Do you remember them, the dreams?’
‘Yeah.’
Her throat dry, the nightmare she had woken from still vivid and playing in her head, Amy pushed the sheet back, clambered from the bed. She didn’t like her state of undress, but the need for water was more important.
She pushed open the bathroom door, leaving it ajar as she splashed cold water over her face and then drank greedily from the faucet. Her heart was pounding, her nerves jumpy, but she was calming down, slowly. Grabbing her robe, she tied it in place and stepped back into the bedroom.
Sullivan was still sat on the edge of her bed, one hand stroking Huckleberry as he watched her.
Amy gave him a twisted smile. ‘I’m gonna put the coffee pot on. Don’t think I’m ready for sleep again yet.’
As they sat at her dining table, she told him about the nightmare. About the stone steps leading down to the basement room, the sense of foreboding that something terrible was in the room, and how the dream ended as she entered and saw what was waiting for her. She always woke at that point and, although the rest of the dream was vividly clear, she could never remember what had been in the room.
Jake was no shrink, but it sounded like a repressed memory to him and he told her so.
‘So you think it’s real? It’s something that happened to me?’ She sounded sceptical.
‘It would make sense. I’m no expert on dreams, but if you have a recurring one I’d figure it’s going to change slightly each time. You say yours doesn’t.’
‘But I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve gone down into a basement. I mean, sure, my parents had a cellar at home, but it’s not the same place.’
‘If it’s repressed, you’re not going to remember it.’
Amy narrowed her eyes. ‘I think I would remember something like that.’
‘Would you?’
‘Of course.’
‘But the dream feels real?’
‘Sure, but dreams do when you’re having them. Then you wake up. They’re make-believe. Remember, I’m a writer. I have an overactive imagination.’
‘Don’t you think it odd the nightmares have started up again since the murders?’
Amy shrugged, not buying whatever theory he was heading towards.
‘It’s a traumatic situation. I’m sure traumatic situations can bring on nightmares.’
She glanced over at the letters from her fan, Mr X, sitting in a pile at the other end of the table.
They had been talking about them before she’d headed off to bed. Having read them all, Jake was convinced there was a connection to the murders. He had pretty much talked Amy round to the same conclusion. Finding out a murderer had been following her career, writing to her, would be enough to bring on a nightmare.
