Fallen (26 page)

The incident wasn’t his case, wasn’t being categorized with the other shootings. But Ryan still felt a guilty, persistent tug inside him.

Although he had split up with Mateo awhile ago, he’d been too wired to go home. Instead, he’d driven around the city until he had ended up here. Ryan sat across the street from Lydia’s building. He had been inside it once, months ago when he
dropped off some misrouted mail. Her unit was on the eighth floor, and he looked up at the line of floor-to-ceiling windows, estimating which ones were hers.

He really was pitiable. Conducting a stakeout on his ex-wife’s home.

The lights in what he believed to be her unit had been off earlier, but he noticed there was now a pale glow coming from inside. Which meant she was home and awake. Ryan had left her a message earlier that day, letting her know they’d been unable to glean any evidence from the packaging used to mail the wasps. He hadn’t heard back from her, and he wondered now if he shouldn’t also forewarn her about his visit to Brandt.

Or maybe he was just a glutton for punishment and needed to know if Varek was up there with her.

Reaching for his cell phone, he paused uncertainly before dialing her number. Lydia answered on the second ring. The breathless, panicky way she said his name put him on instant alert. “What’s wrong?”

A beat of silence. He sat up straighter in the driver’s seat. “Lydia?”

“I-I got a call …” she stammered, her voice shaky and hesitant. “I know it wasn’t real! I haven’t lost my mind …”

What wasn’t real?
She was rambling now, words pouring out of her about twisted jokes and Ian Brandt. He felt his stomach tense, not liking where this was headed. “Lydia, slow down. Just tell me about the call.”

“It was a child, a little boy.” She paused, obviously struggling to stay composed. “He called me
Mommy
. God. He … said he was our Tyler.”

Ryan went still, his skin tightening with the shock of it.

“I’m not crazy! I-I know it wasn’t my baby, but I …” She made a choking sound that speared through him. “I thought I could handle this on my own, that in time Ian Brandt would give up and all of this would just stop—”

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” he rasped, attempting to soothe her despite the white-hot rage churning inside him. Brandt had no children, at least none Ryan had learned about. But he probably knew someone who did. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

He exited the SUV. “Give me the number that came through on your phone.”

“I-I can’t ever tell where they’re coming from. They all say caller unknown—”

“There’ve been others?” Ryan scowled. She’d been holding back on him yesterday at the hospital. He waited impatiently for several passing motorists and then jogged across the multilane street to her building. “Damn it, Lydia. How many and for how long?”

“I-I don’t know. Seven, eight calls over the last several days. But they’ve all been hang-ups or obscenities before. They weren’t …”

Ryan winced. He headed tensely up the stairs to the building’s plaza.

“I should’ve told you about the calls yesterday,” Lydia said apologetically. “But I got myself into this mess. Adam was right about me needing to stay away from you. I didn’t want to pull you into this—”

“It’s all right,” he assured her as he tried the doors. “Look, I’m at your building, but the lobby’s closed down.”

“You’re here?” She sniffled, sounding confused.

“I was in the area.” An understatement. Ryan peered into the elegant interior. “Give me your pass code. I’m coming up.”

She relayed it. “I’m so sorry, Ryan. I didn’t think things would go this far. I know I’m overreacting, but the last few days have been … I’m not … handling this well.”

“Listen to me. There’s nothing to be sorry for, all right?”

Disconnecting the call, his face hot, Ryan punched in the security code and entered the lobby. He’d visited Brandt as a warning, but it had apparently slid right off his back. Maybe even made things worse. It was clear Brandt had done his homework on Lydia, so he no doubt knew about their child, too. Local media had reported the drowning, a page two story and a brief segment on the nightly news. Even now any Web search could bring it up. Ryan swallowed, feeling an ache in his throat at how undone Lydia had sounded. The thought that Tyler could be used as a weapon against her caused fury to burn inside him. He punched the elevator button.

Calm down. Be smart.

Still, Ryan clenched his hands as he waited for the elevator to reach the floor. He fantasized about having five minutes alone with Ian Brandt.

*

Lydia didn’t know how long he’d been there, but she now sensed his presence behind her. Her body went rigid as he moved closer and carefully wrapped his arms around her, drawing her back against his chest. Spooning her to him. Throat tight, she swiped at the tears on her face. Light shone through the windows of their home, the day cruelly sunny and warm outside.

She’d been vacuuming and found the toy dinosaur figure forgotten under the sofa. Her fingers worried its molded plastic. It had been one of Tyler’s favorites.

“We’ll be all right,” Ryan promised against her ear, his voice earnest. Desperate. “We’re going to get through this.”

Lydia knew he was hurting, too. That the guilt was dragging him under. Since returning from New Orleans, she was aware of the time he spent just staring off toward the now-locked gate and covered pool, the trips he took alone to the cemetery. Still, she wanted to ask him not to touch her. Not to hold her. She felt broken inside. She wanted her own quiet death so she could be with her baby again.

“I don’t want to,” she whispered.

Seeing him in her hallway, still wearing his shoulder holster and detective’s shield at his waist, Lydia felt a rush of relief. She didn’t know what had brought him so close to her this late at night, but she was intensely grateful for it.

For a brief moment, neither said anything. Then she went into his arms. Wordlessly, he held her.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled against his chest, knowing she had already apologized, knowing he’d told her there was no need. It felt so good to be held by him, she realized with a stab of emotion. To be safe in his arms. When he finally released her, the look of concern on his features was nearly enough to cause tears to form again in her eyes.

Following her inside, he closed the door and led her to the couch, drawing her down next to him. “Tell me about the calls.”

Her hands fluttering in her lap, Lydia haltingly relayed what the child had said, aware of Ryan’s stormy eyes and clenched jaw. She told him as well about the repeated hang-ups and the man swearing at her.

“Did you recognize Brandt’s voice?”

“I’m not completely sure, but it didn’t sound like him.”

“So he had someone else do it.” Reaching for the handset on the console, Ryan peered at its screen, scrolling through the list of calls. Then he stood and began pacing as he used the phone.

“This is Detective Ryan Winter with the Atlanta Police,” he said, giving his badge number for verification. “I need a reverse lookup on the most recent call to this number.”

After a moment, he relayed the dates and times of the other calls, too. He waited for information, then disconnected.

“They all came from the same burner phone.”

Lydia knew what it was. A prepaid, disposable cell phone—a tool favored by drug dealers and terrorists. By anyone who didn’t want to be traced.

“Brandt’s a sick son of a bitch.” He bit out the words, his features hard.

Lydia was unable to stop thinking about the little boy. He sounded like he was maybe five or six. “I know what I heard, Ryan. I was talking to a
child
. Who brings a child into something like this?”

“You said yourself Brandt has people working for him.” He clasped the back of his neck. “He could be anyone’s—the son of his maid or someone else on his payroll. Kids can be coached to say pretty much anything.”

She slowly shook her head in disbelief.

With a sigh, Ryan sat beside her. For a time, they stared at the television screen. Lydia didn’t recall when she’d turned it on, although the sound was muted. The late-night news was running a repeat of the story about the officer who had shot a homeless man behind his house, mistaking him for the killer believed to be stalking police. Lydia had first heard about it while still on-shift in the ER.

“I didn’t want to add to your problems,” she murmured.

Ryan looked at her, the stress in his blue eyes indicating just how much pressure he was under. But he reached for her hand, his fingers gently tangling with hers, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. The gesture squeezed her heart.

“Lydia,” he scolded gently. “You’re not a problem. And this
is
going to stop, I promise. For starters, we’re going to get a civil harassment order, or at least try to. Tomorrow. It might not stop the calls, but it will keep Brandt away from you. If he comes within a hundred yards of you, he’ll land his ass in jail.”

“Just don’t confront him, Ryan, all right? Despite what we both think, you have no hard evidence he’s behind this. If you just charge in and start making accusations, he’ll use it against you …”

She halted as she looked at his face. “God. You already did.”

Releasing her fingers, he briefly rubbed his forehead. “I’d been planning to tell you. It’s actually why I called tonight.”

“He made a complaint against you, didn’t he?”

“Thompson took the heat, but I’ve been warned to back off.” His voice was low. “I’m not backing off a damn thing where your safety’s concerned.”

Lydia fell silent, her fingers absently toying with a cushion from the sofa. She sincerely hadn’t wanted to entangle him.

“I wondered where that went,” he said a short time later, breaking into her thoughts.

She glanced down at her sleep shorts and the faded T-shirt she wore. The ancient shirt was from Ryan’s days at the training academy, with
Atlanta PD
emblazoned on its front. She’d had little time—only his elevator ride upstairs—to compose herself. The shirt had ended up among her things when she had moved out, and she’d kept it, its worn familiarity a comfort. Lydia had put it on after her shower, had forgotten she had it on until she’d already let him inside. A heaviness inside her, she self-consciously ran a hand through her sleep-mussed hair.

“What is it, Lyd?” he urged, peering at her with concern. “You’re upset, and this goes beyond an ugly phone call.”

She pictured Tyler in her mind. His sweet face with twin dimples and blue eyes. The phone call had brought it all back to the surface.

“I just miss him,” she whispered.

She saw her own pain reflected in Ryan’s gaze. She sighed and closed her eyes.

“Lydia,” he murmured, causing her to open them again. His pinched lips and lean, handsome features were inches from hers. When he spoke, his voice was a low rasp, frayed and thick with emotion. “You know I’d give
my
life
to bring him back to us.”

She laid her fingers on his still-bandaged forearm. “You were a good father, Ryan.”

He shook his head, his voice roughening further. “If I were a good father, he’d still be here.”

“Ryan,” she whispered, her heart hurting for him.

They sat coupled together, Ryan with his arm behind her on the sofa’s back and Lydia turned in to him, her knee touching the side of his thigh. For a long time they simply stared into one another’s eyes. They had both been through so much. Ryan had fully shouldered the responsibility for what had happened, and she hadn’t made it easier for him.

Her mind played over the tears and long silences, the things she wished she had never said.

Unable to fill her lungs completely, she felt her pulse beat hard in her throat as she leaned closer, lifting her hand to caress his stubbled jaw with her fingers. Ryan’s eyes darkened at her touch. He swallowed, appearing so uncertain. But then, tentatively, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers.

She felt heat fill her. Pulling away a few inches, Ryan searched her eyes. Then he kissed her again, more slowly this time. Their mouths joined together, Lydia moved against him, her arms settling around his neck as he deepened the kiss, holding her more tightly. His hands caressed her back then slid down to stroke her waist. She’d been lost for so long, drifting in her grief. She’d stopped believing in God. Stopped believing in
Ryan
, too. But being held by him now, being kissed by him … she felt anchored again to something strong. Safe.

It was several long moments before he broke apart from her, his breathing hard and uneven.

“What are we doing, Lydia?” he asked hoarsely.

She only knew that she needed him now, more than she needed her heartbeat or air. Lydia answered by grinding her lips to his again. Ryan grunted into her mouth in response, kissing her back harder, his body hot against hers. She was half on his lap now, aware of his hardening manhood as well as the emotion swirling within her. Lydia’s fingers worked at the top buttons of his dress shirt, eager to feel the warm silk of his skin.

Ryan broke their kiss again. Lydia looked at him, already feeling a slight bruise to her lips. In the lamplight, his face was shadowed and intense. Her palm lay on his chest, and she could feel the runaway thud of his heart. For a brief moment, she felt fear he would stop things, be the one of them with reason.

“Not here,” he rasped. Setting her back from him, he rose from the couch and removed his shoulder holster and gun, unclipped his shield, laying all of it on the coffee table. He drew her up by her arms.

Lydia shivered as she looked into his eyes and glimpsed the raw need that shone there.

Taking his hand, she led him into the bedroom.

In the shadows, the curtains pulled back, the bed’s rumpled sheets appeared silvery gray with the lights of the city spilling on them. Ryan stood in front of her, his face a study of handsome masculinity—hard jawline and full mouth, strong cheekbones and eyes rimmed with sooty lashes. A hunger shimmered through her. He pressed his body to hers. His hands were on her, touching her everywhere, then pulling the hem of her T-shirt upward and dropping it to the floor. She wore no bra.