Tainted Read online

  Why is he doing this again? Why abduct an innocent girl last night? Why not come after me? It’s not like I’m in any hurry for my life to end, but every girl he abducts and kills is like a dagger to my heart. I could have prevented this from happening if I’d just been strong enough to stop him the first time around. I just can’t imagine ending another person’s life—not even someone as evil as my father.

  I can feel the past creeping up on me, wanting to drag me back into the darkness. After drawing in a deep breath and exhaling, I concentrate on watching the numbers on the alarm clock as they count away the minutes. It’s well after ten in the morning, but I have no urge to get up. My stomach is in turmoil from the alcohol I’d consumed last night and my late-night visit with Holden. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter what he thinks. I’m just a pawn in this deadly game of cat and mouse.

  A quiet knock sounds on the apartment’s outer door, and I stiffen. The bedroom door is wide open, and my eyes slide towards the hall that leads to the main room.

  Holden.

  I ignore the knock and wait for him to go away.

  “Ren?” I hear him call through the door.

  If he thinks we’re going to discuss last night, he’s delusional. I lean across the bed and pick up my phone from the nightstand. I quickly type, Go away. Some people are still trying to sleep, and press send. Then, I flop back onto the mattress and close my eyes.

  Blessed silence fills my ears.

  * * *

  I can feel Holden’s eyes on me.

  He’s been watching me closely this evening, and for the hundredth time, I curse my slip-up last night. What the hell had I been thinking? I wasn’t, and that’s the problem. Alcohol dulls my mind—which is the whole point of drinking, but somehow, it made me search him out. I’m just hoping that there won’t be any further repeats.

  As the night wears on, I try to focus on the job at hand. Something always needs to be done between serving drinks, whether it’s wiping away water rings on the bar’s shiny wooden surface, taking glasses to the back, or tossing empty beer bottles in the trash. The crowd is thick tonight, and over the music there are a lot of conversations going on. It should be plenty distracting, but Holden’s eyes are burning holes into me.

  I finally give into my aggravation and walk over to him. “Stop watching me,” I hiss.

  He sets down the glass he’d just picked up, and his gray eyes meet mine as one eyebrow slants upwards. “You think I’m the only one watching you?” His gaze deliberately dances over my outfit which consists of tight jeans and a tank. “I hate to break it to you, but every man in this establishment is watching you.” His eyes lift back to mine. “And you like it.”

  My eyes widen briefly. If we were here under different circumstances, I’d be enjoying his attention. But we’re not. And I don’t want to look the fool. I flash him a glare. “Stop.”

  “Stop what?” he asks, his expression giving nothing away.

  “Whatever it is that you’re doing,” I say with exasperation. “I’m the bait and you’re the big bad cop. Let’s not blur the lines.”

  Something shifts in his gaze. “You’re wrong.”

  I look at him questioningly.

  “I don’t see you as bait,” he clarifies.

  “Well, you should.” I turn and walk back to my side of the bar and flash a ready smile at the man waving a twenty.

  As I fulfill his request for a round of beers, a lump develops in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

  I am the bait.

  I’m the squirming worm on the hook, unable to escape its inevitable fate. Holden’s the one holding the pole, using me to lure the shark. He’s not in my life to play the hero. He’s trying to prevent further deaths, and if something happens to me in the process, I’m just collateral.

  During the past few years, loneliness has been my constant companion. Yet tonight, standing in the crowded bar, I feel more alone than I have in a very long time.

  Nine

  Holden

  My phone wakes me from a dead sleep, and I quickly grab it from the nightstand and put it to my ear. “Brooks,” I clip out.

  “Paul contacted me twenty minutes ago. He found a package sitting outside the bar’s back exit. It’s addressed to Serenity Donahue. I’m headed over to check surveillance and examine the package,” Lieutenant Martinez informs me.

  I sit up, fully awake as I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s just a little past six AM. “I’m on my way.”

  “You can’t leave Donahue’s daughter.”

  “Clark and Cadara are right outside the building, she’ll be fine. I’m tired of being left out of these things,” I bite out.

  “Holden—”

  “You think Donahue hasn’t figured out I’m a cop?” I ask before reminding myself to tread lightly with Martinez. He’s my lieutenant, and I’m the new guy. I don’t have enough experience with the team to be throwing my weight around.

  Martinez sighs loudly on the other end. “Fine,” he says and ends the call.

  After tossing the phone aside, I launch myself out of bed and hurriedly change into clothes. On my way out of the building, I call Clark to tell her that I’m leaving the premises.

  While I drive to Bull’s, my thoughts remain on Ren. It’s been four days since she’d shown up on my doorstep completely tanked. She’s been keeping me at arm’s length, and I can’t blame her. If our roles were reversed, I’d be pissed over being that vulnerable. I can’t begin to imagine what she’s going through or what she’s feeling.

  Something lurking deep within her gaze has begun to wear on me, though. I hadn’t been able to decipher it until I was lying in bed last night, waiting for sleep to overtake me.

  It’s resignation.

  She doesn’t expect to make it out of this mess, and that knowledge bothers me. She doesn’t believe that I’m capable of keeping her alive. Her lack of faith is disturbing. I’ve dealt with witnesses and victims of crimes before, but Ren’s different.

  Maybe it’s the sadness that emanates from her once we leave Bull’s for the night. The strange look in her eyes. The silence. It reveals to me that she thinks she has nothing to look forward to. I have yet to see a genuine smile grace her lips; the smiles she reserves for the bar patrons are fake and empty.

  Her desolation tugs at me in places that it shouldn’t. Hell, I should be focused on keeping her alive and not concerning myself over her drinking herself to oblivion nightly. It’s amazing she’s even made it this long on her own.

  When I pull into Bull’s, I note which vehicles are already there. Not wanting to disturb the crime scene in the back, I make my way through from the front of the building instead. As I near the back, I can hear voices.

  Martinez, Bruggs, and Harris are standing together discussing what looks to be the contents of a small box. The box is sitting on the counter in the small kitchen, its edges peeled open—revealing its contents.

  Martinez glances at me and hands me a pair of latex gloves. Once I slip them on, I press the box’s edging down so that I can see what’s inside. I blink and then turn grim. “Christ.”

  It’s a human tongue. No doubt it’d been cut from the girl that had been abducted five days ago.

  I reach for the flashlight beside the box and click it on, scanning the tongue with the light. It looks as though it had been cut raggedly from the root, and some of the fleshy muscle that had secured it to her throat still remains along the edges. The tongue smells musty with a hint of something metallic, and I inhale through my mouth. Blood still coats the areas shredded from where it’d been crudely removed from the girl’s throat.

  There’s no way the girl is still alive, and I click off the light, setting it aside. The mutilation hadn’t been neat, and if I were to guess, Donahue had probably used a small saw of some sort. I sure as hell hope the girl was long dead before this was done but judging by the blood coating the bottom of the box, she was more likely alive.

  “It’s a
message to the daughter,” Martinez states grimly.

  “And now the victim is dead,” Bruggs says, shaking his head with disappointment.

  After peeling off the gloves, I run a hand over my face as I process this new turn of events. “Has surveillance been checked?” Surveillance cameras had been placed at both exits before Ren had come back with me to Arkansas. We’d wanted everything prepared with no delays that could cost us the case or innocent lives.

  “Not yet,” Bruggs replies.

  “Get that to the lab,” Martinez tells him.

  We watch as Bruggs carefully picks up the box with his gloved hands and exits the small kitchen. Having three men with our heights and builds in the kitchen all at once had been stifling. Now with Bruggs gone, I can feel my body relaxing.

  Martinez’s hazel eyes meet mine, and he motions us out of the kitchen. I follow him to Paul’s office, where we find Paul behind his desk studying something on his computer screen.

  “What do we have?” Martinez asks his friend as he moves closer so that he can peer over Paul’s shoulder.

  Paul, a short man with blond hair and sharp blue eyes, glances at us. “See for yourself.”

  I walk over and watch the screen. A kid probably no older than twelve, wearing a red hoodie that hides his face, rides his bike into view. He climbs off his bike near the back exit before setting the box by the door. Then, he’s climbing on his bike and racing out of view of the camera.

  Martinez rakes a hand through his dark hair. “This is useless.”

  I silently agree, and now we have two choices. We could track down the kid to ask questions that will probably give us nothing—Donahue’s too smart to make mistakes. Furthermore, our interest in the boy could cost him his life. There’s no point in bringing attention to the kid if odds are it’ll be for nothing. It’d be best to let the kid’s part in this go.

  Martinez must come to the same conclusion, because he turns his attention on me, his face hardening. “Draw more attention to Miss Donahue. Get her out, somewhere other than the bar,” he clarifies.

  His order grates on my nerves. “He just sent her a tongue.”

  “Exactly. We want him focused on his daughter, not potential victims,” Martinez reminds.

  Paul clears his throat and rises from his chair, excusing himself from the room.

  “You want her to parade around, flaunting herself.” I state, unable to keep the censor from my tone.

  He doesn’t miss it, and his eyes sharpen. “That’s why she’s here.”

  “Have you taken into consideration how difficult it must be just being in the same city as him? Not to mention we’ll need her to testify at the trial,” I remind.

  Martinez’s gaze narrows. “Is this getting too personal, Detective Brooks?”

  “No,” I assure. “But it’s certainly personal for her. She has feelings, Lieutenant. Just being here is taking its toll.”

  His lips thin. “She’s crumbling under the pressure?”

  “No,” I say levelly, not wanting him to become personally involved. I have a feeling Ren would ditch the entire thing if she had to deal with Martinez. “But if I’m to do my job successfully, she needs to trust me, and she’s not to that point yet.”

  “Then you’re not working her hard enough.”

  I grind my teeth together, restraining my impulse to share my thoughts. Sometimes, Martinez is a real dick, but even so, he’s good at his job.

  “Figure it out,” he orders before he exits the office without a backward glance.

  Now that I’m alone, I release a soft, heartfelt curse.

  * * *

  It’s late, and although I should be in bed, I find myself sitting on the sofa with a beer in hand instead. I’m a fucking hypocrite considering how much I disapprove of Ren drowning her sorrows. Yet here I am drinking because there’s nothing else to do. I’m not a ‘sit back and watch TV’ kind of guy. I usually enjoy staying active with outdoor activities, but there’s not much that can be done at two AM, especially when I’m on duty.

  I’ve been trying to brainstorm how to coax Ren further into the public eye without her feeling like the ‘bait’ that we both know she is. Unfortunately, I’m coming up with a whole lot of nothing.

  We’re clearly not on the same page, and I don’t know how to change that. I’m struggling to find a way to get her fully onboard with all this, but she’s mentally and physically distancing herself from it.

  My mind keeps drawing blanks, and the only thing that keeps bouncing around in my mind is what would I want if I were in her shoes? How would I want to move forward if I were her?

  Ten

  Ren

  Mornings are always a bit of a conundrum for me. The sunrise chases away the darkness and nightmares, but then I have no choice but to deal with the reality of daytime. Along with the relief of another night officially put to rest comes the usual irritableness thanks to last night’s alcohol consumption. So when I hear a knock on my door before I’ve dragged myself out of bed, I groan and pull the covers over my head.

  The culprit is no doubt Holden.

  A second knock reaches my ears, and I yank the blanket off my face and reach for my phone. The man has a death wish. With bleary eyes, I focus on the screen and type, Go away. After I press send and set the phone on the nightstand, I settle back onto the mattress.

  I was awake long before he’d knocked on the door, I just have no energy and my head aches. I tend to linger in bed in the mornings until I’m ready to face the day.

  I hear another patient knock, and I sigh loudly as I gaze up at the ceiling. What part of ‘go away’ does he not understand? Knowing how persistent he can be, I figure I’d better go find out what he wants. With an aggravated groan, I ease out of bed and change.

  Once I’m somewhat presentable in a pair of jeans and an off-shoulder tee—with a bra beneath, I pull my hair up into a messy knot and head for the door.

  My irritation with Holden is causing my head to pound worse than it was earlier, and as I remove the chair from beneath the doorknob, I set it down with a loud thud.

  I yank open the door. “What?”

  Holden stands there, and my glare loses some of its strength as I admire how good he looks in his casual tee and jeans. His hair is slightly damp from a recent shower, and he flashes me a disarming smile as he holds up two Styrofoam cups with lids. “I figured you could use one of these.”

  I grit my teeth and try to ignore the dimple in his chin. Hormones suck. “Did you not get my text?”

  He looks at me innocently. “What text?”

  I give him a look and back up so that he can enter the apartment. If he’s bringing refreshments, he has no plans of leaving anytime soon.

  Holden steps into the kitchen and uses his elbow to firmly close the apartment door. I move around him and make certain to turn the lock before facing him once more.

  The kitchen is much smaller now that his muscular frame is taking up most of the extra space. He holds a cup out to me.

  Making no move to take it, I eye it warily. “What is it?”

  “Coffee.”

  My eyes lift to his, noting how clear his gray eyes are this morning. “Why?”

  “Because you smell like a liquor store,” he says dryly.

  His reply has me folding my arms defensively across my chest. “Well aren’t you just a bundle of sweetness this morning,” I mutter.

  “If I complimented you, would it change anything?” he asks, cocking a sardonic eyebrow.

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.” He steps around me and saunters through the kitchen and towards the living room. With no other option than to follow, I enter the living room and find that he’s folded his lean, muscular frame so that he can sit on the sofa. He looks at me expectantly and holds out the cup again. “You’re going to need this.”

  My heart plummets. Great. I’d much prefer a social call than discuss the case. I take a seat near him, careful to keep a wide space between us, an
d accept the coffee. When I take a sip, I blink with surprise. It’s not all that bad, and I taste a hint of vanilla.

  “You didn’t strike me as the type to like your coffee black,” Holden comments.

  I grudgingly give him a nod. “Thanks.”

  Holden sits back and takes a brief drink from his coffee before his attention completely focuses on me. He seems to be waiting for me to initiate the conversation.

  “So why do I need coffee this morning?” I finally ask, enjoying the warmth of the cup in my hands.

  “A package was left for you yesterday morning at Bull’s,” he informs.

  For a long moment, I stare at him. “A package?” I echo. We’d worked last night, and not a word was said to me. “What do you mean? Why wasn’t I told yesterday?”

  He gives me a long look. “I’ve been debating how to tell you.”

  When it sinks in that my father had likely left the package, I draw in a shallow breath. The urge to leave the room and end this conversation is strong, because I know this is going to be bad. With shaky hands, I set the coffee on the carpet next to the sofa and turn my body to face him, my expression grim as I try to suppress everything I’m feeling.

  A little furrow appears between Holden’s eyebrows. “This isn’t working, Ren. You and I need to be on the same page if we’re going to take him down. Isn’t that what you want?” he prods in a patient tone.

  “You know it is.”

  His eyes hold mine captive. “Then we need to break down this wall you’ve built between us.”

  I frown. What is he talking about? “I’m not understanding…”

  “We need to begin working together and planning what comes next. I’d like to move forward as partners,” he informs.

  Something’s changed. Whatever was in that package has impacted Holden and his team. “What did he do?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

  Holden gives a brief shake of his head. “Before we get to that, we need to figure out how involved you’re going to be.”