A Deadly Reunion (24 page)

I knew men like Denver Scott.

They were too complicated.

And it was my number one rule never to get
involved with complicated guys.

So why was I turning around?

Why was I walking across the car park,
across the lawn, and up the porch steps?

Why was I staring at him?

Why wasn’t I looking away when he stared
back?

Because just maybe I didn’t know as much as
I thought.

Wetlake had brought surprises.

It was about to bring another.

Chapter 15

I reached him.

My bag dropped off my shoulder as I pushed
into him.

He collapsed his arms around my middle.
Bringing his head down, his breath beat hard into my neck as he
leaned his full weight against mine.

Running my hands down his arms, I felt him
smiling as he pressed his cheek against mine.

Mumbling something, he leaned into me again
until he pressed me against the door.

Before I could question whether we were
going to do this outside, I felt him pull his keys from his pocket.
Slipping his hand past my waist, he fumbled with them until the
lock unclicked. Pushing the door open, I fell back.

My arms around his neck and back, I took him
with me.

We thumped against the soft but worn carpet
of the motel room.

Laughing into my hair, he pushed his hand
down my arm, over my back, and around to my stomach.

“The door’s still open,” I pointed out as I
finally kissed him.

His lips locked against mine.

Twisting his head and pushing harder into my
mouth, he let his fingers and thumbs drag distractingly over my
neck and chest.

I grabbed my hands over his jaw, leaning up
and into him. Breaking apart, but still holding onto his face, I
looked into his eyes for a moment. “Is this a good idea?” I asked
breathlessly.

“It’s a terrible idea; the door’s still
open,” he replied.

My lips curled into the slightest of
smiles.

Denver Scott let his hands drop from my
stomach and back as he stood up.

He walked over to the door.

He stepped out.

He grabbed my bag.

He walked back in. He placed my bag
respectfully on the side table.

He closed the door and bolted it.

Then he turned on the lights.

I watched him smile, and then he reached
me.

I woke up to the familiar sound of someone
knocking insistently on the door.

But something was different this time.

As I opened my eyes, I opened them to the
sight of Denver Scott.

Blinking his own eyes open, he looked
confusedly at me for just a second. Then he smiled.

Then the knocking continued.

“Shit,” he said through a short breath.

“Denver? Denver, is that you? Are you in
there?”

We both looked at each other as if we’d been
sprung, but fortunately the voice didn’t belong to Thorne
Scott.

It was a woman.

“Who is it?” Denver called out.

“It’s me, Annabelle. I need to talk to you.
Can I come in?”

Denver turned to me and mouthed the word
Annabelle with a confused look on his face.

I shrugged my shoulders.

But I didn’t say anything.

“What is this about? I’m just getting
dressed,” Denver said as he got out of bed, still looking at me as
he did.

“The murders, it’s important I talk to
you.”

Denver swore softly.

“Right, I’ll be out in a second.”

I watched him dress quickly.

“Are you coming?” he whispered.

I shook my head and hugged my pillow
determinedly.

This elicited a soft snort from him.

“She doesn’t want me; she wants you,” I
whispered back.

“I’ll be quick,” as he said that, he stared
right at me.

Damn him, because tingles – quick, fast, and
wholly effective – shot all the way through my back and
stomach.

“Right, you’re not going to drive away in
your big old country truck as soon as I turn my back on you?” he
questioned as he walked backwards towards the door.

I paused to look as if I were thinking, then
I shook my head.

“Promise?”

I nodded.

He finally turned around, opened the door a
crack, and walked out without ever revealing too much of his room
and the fact that little old Patti Smith was sleeping in his
bed.

I stayed there huddled against the pillow as
I smiled wildly.

I wasn’t usually one to smile wildly.

Hell, in a moment I might even have to start
giggling.

Before I could, however, I frowned as I
listened to what Denver and Annabelle were talking about.

Though I couldn’t hear everything, one word
came up clearly.

A rather memorable one.

Patti.

Why were they talking about me in
conjunction with the murders?

Reluctantly I got out of bed and I padded
across the floor and pressed my ear hard against the door.

The wood was cold, but I didn’t pull
away.

“I’m sorry to disturb you so early in the
morning, Denver, but I couldn’t sleep last night. I just had to
tell somebody.”

“What?” I heard Denver’s voice ripple with
suspicion.

“
About Patti Smith. There’s something...
not right there. She is so damn arrogant. Rubbing our faces in her
wealth. Shit, you would think we’re all dirt compared to
her.”

“You said you have information about the
murders,” Denver prompted quickly.

“Not information so much as a hunch. Look, I
had to tell somebody, but when I picked Patti up yesterday, she
kept on asking questions about Nancy. Really personal questions.
She wanted to know where Nancy lived, whether she still had any
family, where she was going after Wetlake, what she did for a
living, who her friends are. The questions just wouldn’t stop. And
you should have seen the look in her eyes, Denver; I’m telling you
something isn’t right there.”

What on earth was going on here?

Was Annabelle, seemingly the nicest most
genuine person in all of Wetlake, stabbing me in the back?

“I see,” Denver said objectively.

Christ... he couldn’t believe this, could
he?

“
I need more. Do you have...” he trailed
off.

“
Evidence? Do you think I’d be here if I
didn’t have evidence? She left something at my house last night. I
can’t even imagine why I let her come home with me in the first
place. But you know us people from Wetlake; we’re just too
trusting. Anyhow, I thought you could come and have a look at what
she left. It’s a little... scrapbook thing. Full of pictures, and I
don’t even want to know what they depict and where they came from.
But Denver, I think you need to see them.”

I clamped a hand over my mouth.

What in holy hell was happening here?

I hadn’t left anything at Annabelle’s...
except for my clothes. And as for scrapbooks, she’d shoved a couple
of her own under my face, but that was it.

I’d never scrapbooked anything in my
life.

What the hell was she talking about?

“Did you call this in?” Denver asked
quietly.

“Of course I did; I told the local police
everything I’m telling you. But everyone is so busy, I thought I’d
come and get you personally. Plus, I don’t want some clod I barely
know mucking up my house. And though I love your brother dearly, he
seems a little out of his depth here.”

I listened to Annabelle with my mouth
pressed open and my hands shaking.

“I mean, don’t you think it’s a little bit
more than a coincidence that Patti Smith, the one person who hated
Wetlake High more than any other, shows up and suddenly people
start dying? Her classmates? The very same people who ridiculed
her? I’m telling you, something snapped in that there brain of
hers, and I’ve got the evidence to prove it. And it’s got her
fingerprints all over it,” she added triumphantly.

Denver didn’t say a word. Yet he had to know
that I was right behind the door.

“She told me about receiving that
threatening note on the back of a postcard lowered into her
bathroom while she was in the shower. It makes no sense, right?
Someone managed to get into her room without her hearing? Yeah
right. When she told me that story, I could see she was lying. It
would be the perfect distraction. Keep you and the rest of the
police busy thinking she’s the next in line while she goes off and
murders another one of our classmates.”

“Take me to your house,” Denver said
quietly.

I closed my eyes and pressed them shut as
tight as I could.

“
It will be a relief to have a professional
look over it. I just... don’t want to even look at the stuff,”
Annabelle said, her voice getting further away as she clearly
walked down the porch and onto the grass.

Soon their voices grew distant until I could
no longer make them out at all.

A few minutes later, I heard the rumble of
engines and then a crunching sound as tires traveled over the
gravel.

Then nothing.

I just sat there for god knows how long,
wondering what in the hell had just happened.

Annabelle was meant to be nice, but now she
was trying to stitch me up.

Holy crap.

Holy crap.

What the hell was I meant to do?

Go straight to the police station, hand
myself in, and call my lawyer?

I didn’t want to head off in my truck and
try to go home only to have every Federal Agent in the vicinity of
Wetlake swoop down on me in helicopters toting enormous guns.

So I just... sat there.

It took me a long time to force myself to
get up. I couldn’t simply sit there in Denver’s room waiting for
him to come back. Time ticked on, and he didn’t return and neither
did the police suddenly surround the motel, kick in the door, and
drag me off to prison.

Walking back and forth across the carpet, I
couldn’t believe this was happening. Why had Annabelle said those
things? Why was she setting me up?

Was she jealous of me?

Had she snapped?

Or... Christ... was there a far more
malevolent explanation?

I stopped.

I paled.

Annabelle had always been one of the nicest,
most sociable people at school.

Outgoing, friendly, and ready to give you a
hand.

Rubbing my head furiously, I walked into the
bathroom, turned a faucet on, and washed my face.

Then I slowly stared at the mirror.

My reflection stared back at me.

The faucet still on, I heard the water
pooling and gurgling down the drain.

Could Annabelle be confused?

Could I have freaked her out somehow?

No.

She hadn’t just shared her suspicions with
Denver; she’d made up a story. She’d also offered to show him
evidence.

....

Could Annabelle be the murderer?

I closed the faucet. Still staring at
myself.

It was the only thing that made sense,
wasn’t it?

She was stitching me up to take the heat off
herself.

She worked at the school; she had access to
the grounds, she had access to the board inside where photos of
both murdered men had been found pinned up with goddamn blue
pins.

The blue pins could easily be her calling
card. All serial killers had them, didn’t they?

God.

I had to do something.

But what?

Call the police?

That was the sensible thing to do,
right?

Reluctantly I made my way over to the table,
grabbed at my bag, and yanked up my cellphone. As I did, something
fell onto the floor.

Reaching down quickly, I realized what it
was.

The card Denver had given me.

His number.

Before thinking, I started to dial it.

I had to tell him I had nothing to do with
this, that Annabelle was lying, and that she may in fact be the
murderer.

Pressing the phone against my ear, I didn’t
draw a breath until he answered.

There was only one problem though.

He didn’t answer.

So I called again.

Then I called once more. Just as I did, the
signal cut out as if Denver had turned off his phone.

I let my cellphone drop from my ear, and I
stared over at the bed, my eyes wide with confusion.

Why wasn’t he answering?

I knew Denver.

He would answer, right?

Even if he thought I was a serial killer, he
would answer. He’d want to question me.

Or maybe he didn’t want to give the game up.
Maybe he’d called the Feds, and they were on their way now, ready
to surround the motel.

I was going insane.

I had to do something.

There was only one thing I could do: hand
myself in before the door was kicked down.

I dressed, barely capable of forcing my legs
through my jeans.

I managed it though. Then I grabbed at my
bag, my brow slick with sweat, my fringe sticking to my cheeks.

I opened the door.

I closed the door. I blinked my eyes shut,
took a breath, and took a step across the porch.

Then I stopped.

My shoe rolled over something.

Glancing down, I plucked it up as I realized
what it was.

A blue pin.

Just like the ones I’d found at the back of
the motel and in front of my room.

Had Denver dropped it?

Had the raccoons gone through the trash
again?

My stomach twisting with uncertainty, I
pushed the darn thing into my pocket and walked down the porch
steps.

Reaching my car, I turned the ignition on
and pulled out of the car park. Though it was a misdemeanor, I
grabbed my phone and called the local police station as I did.

Someone answered.