When Angels Fall (18 page)

“
I
’
m not going anywhere,
”
Peter said, pushing from the wall and stopping in front of James.
“
Give me the key. Now that I
’
m Alpha, no one is welcome to just come and go as they fucking please.
”

Eva held her breath as the two men stared at each other, the air vibrating with otherworldly energy.

James finally submitted, casting his eyes toward the ground.
“
You
’
re going to push someone too far one of these days, boy,
”
he said, as he methodically twisted a silver key from a ring. Her uncle placed the metal in Peter
’
s outstretched hand and walked forward, passing both of them without another word.

She watched him go, almost wished he
’
d come back.

“
Get inside. You
’
re starting to shiver,
”
Peter said, shoving the key into his pocket and entering her house uninvited.

Resigned, she followed with a sigh and shut the door behind her. She took off her coat, unthreaded the thick red scarf from around her neck. Hanging them both by the door, she said,
“
Is there something you actually wanted?
”

Peter passed the staircase leading to the bedrooms. Okay, not sex then. As he walked down the short hallway, he looked left, and then right as if he hadn
’
t really looked around the last time he
’
d been here. She wondered if it was strange for him to see the changes in his childhood home. She shouldn
’
t care. Didn
’
t want to.

The unspoken words from earlier echoed inside her head. Regret built, layer after layer, each one growing heavier. The phrase
“
H
e started it
”
wasn
’
t a good enough excuse for what she
’
d almost said. What she should correct now.

“
Listen, Peter, what I said earlier about Greg
—
”

He cut her off.
“
I need to see the note you found on the body.
”

A foot from the living room, he turned and threw open the double doors to Greg
’
s office without an ounce of hesitation. Reluctantly, she followed him inside the study. His face a handsome mask of detachment, he looked around what had been Greg
’
s sanctuary. Handcrafted mahogany bookshelves lined the walls and overflowed with books she
’
d spent a good portion of her life reading in front of the stone fireplace. This room, with Greg in it, had been her existence. Pathetic.

Peter moved behind the desk, stroking his finger over the oak as he passed. Greg
’
s leather chair groaned under his weight, the familiar creak when he leaned back calling up a wave of grief. He looked up, spearing her with his gaze. Her breath caught.

Dark, disheveled hair swept across his broad forehead and invited the eye to consume the rest of his face. Although Peter
’
s square, muscular jaw bore a likeness to his father, it was the expression in his eyes, the air of authority,
that
got her.

How had she not connected the son with the father that first night? Grief? Lack of sleep? Shock? Perhaps it was the image of Greg
’
s dead body forever burned into her memory? Closing her eyes, she pictured her father
’
s ashen face marred by the bullet hole in his forehead and the black rivulet of blood. Tears burned her eyes, emotion clogged her throat. She swallowed.

“
Why do you want the note?
”

“
I want to smell it, compare it to the one I found.
”
He stared at the cluttered desk, and then shuffled papers around until he picked up a thin red folder. Opening it, he flipped through documents she
’
d read over a million times in the last two days.

Playing into the memory of times past, she went to the fireplace. With practiced ease, she started a fire, something Greg had always let her do even though he
’
d said it was a man
’
s job. She never looked away from the small orange flames licking outward from the kindling and engulfing the wood.
“
You
’
re a detective now?
”

“
Apparently so are you,
”
he said.

She rose from her crouch and reached for the decanter of Greg
’
s favored whiskey he kept on the mantel. Pouring two glasses, she faced Peter.

He held up the folder.
“
Do I want to know what you did to get a copy of the police file on Greg
’
s murder investigation?
”
An edge crept into his voice, one she planned to ignore.

With a causal lift of her shoulder, she said,
“
As you can see, they haven
’
t ruled it as a murder. The coroner thinks it was a suicide. You know how the long, dark winters affect people.
”

Peter dropped the folder to the desk, sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. He might look relaxed, confident, but the tightening lines around his eyes told the truth.
“
How
’
d you get the file, Eva?
”

She set his liquor on the table, backed away to the far side of the room. The more distance between them, the better. Settling in front of the fireplace, she sat and pulled her legs to her chest. Heat washed over her skin, loosening the tension holding her body stiff. The burning log popped, sent embers dancing. She sipped her firewater, appreciated the burn.

“
Answer me,
”
Peter demanded.

“
Grady wanted to give me flowers. I told him to give me a copy of the file instead.
”

Two days ago, a plan to get Peter out of town formed in her mind. An epiphany during an endless night without sleep. Peter was here, and wouldn
’
t leave because of the murder. If she found out who
’
d killed Greg, then Peter would go home, to Montana. Simple. Until she
’
d gotten the damn file. The lack of evidence was appalling. No leads. No evidence. The only papers were her statement and a few gruesome photos she
’
d rather not see ever again.

“
Where is the rest of it?
”
he asked.

She turned her head to him.
“
That is all they have. Pathetic, huh?
”

Silence fell between them, and she was almost glad he didn
’
t respond. Looking away from him, she rested her head on her knees and let her lids droop. The crackling fire in front of her soothed her like a lullaby. It had been so long since she
’
d slept. Too long.

“
The motherfucker,
”
Peter growled, his sharp words snapping her awake.

“
What
’
s the matter?
”
she asked with a yawn big enough to crack her jaw. She rose, stretching the lethargy from her muscles, wondering how long she
’
d dozed.

Long enough for Peter to empty the crystal glass at his elbow and push his sleeves up his well-built forearms. Partially hiding a scowl, he held the folder near his face, so close she wondered how he could even focus on the words.

“
In your statement you mention a blood trail.
”

“
Okay,
”
she said, tried not to visualize the sprinkling drops so vivid against the white snow.
“
What
’
s your point?
”

He threw the folder down, flipped through photos, each grainy snapshot coaxing the vomit into her throat.
“
My point is that there isn
’
t a picture of it. The blood would have been vital to the investigation. It should have been documented, especially where it led. Suicide my ass. Greg couldn
’
t have shot himself in the head, walked across the parking lot, settled himself in his truck, and then died.
”

Eva blinked, and then blinked again. Why hadn
’
t she come to that conclusion? She picked up the file, frantically searched her statement, remembering Grady writing it down word for word. She paused on the photos. Dull, glazed eyes. Blue skin. The puckered hole with its dark stream of blood. There were a few other photos of the inside of her truck, the bloodstains, and a smeared handprint on the steering wheel, but she didn
’
t find pictures of the blood on the ground.

“
Did you notice anything else that isn
’
t in here? Footprints, tire tracks? Greg isn
’
t a small man, someone would have either had to drop him off via vehicle or carry him.
”

She bit her lip, tried to think.
“
No, I can
’
t remember seeing anything like that. Not a lot of cars come in and out
of
the parking lot, so the treads stay until more snow falls. I should call James, he might remember.
”

Peter
’
s head shot up so quickly, he almost cracked her in the jaw.
“
You didn
’
t mention James was with you.
”

“
He was the first person I called. I figured he
’
d know what to do. There was the note to think about. I didn
’
t want to expose the Pard.
”

“
The police never took his statement.
”

“
He was gone before they got there, went out through the woods to see if he could catch a scent.
”
She shrugged.
“
He said he couldn
’
t pick anything up.
”

Peter shook his head. Rage simmered in his eyes.
“
Either the good detective purposely withheld evidence, the blood trail, footprints, and tire treads, or he
’
s a piss
-
poor detective.
”

“
He didn
’
t do it, Peter.
”
She rose, paced back and forth in front of the fire. Thoughts whirled in her head, too quick to grab. Then, it hit her. She stopped abruptly, looked at Peter. Raising her hand and shaping it into a gun, she pointed her imaginary weapon at his head.

“
Shifters are quick, and Greg, despite his age, was in excellent physical condition.
”

Peter frowned, but sat up a little straighter as if he understood what she was trying to say. She met his gaze, slowly compressed her index finger on the make-believe trigger. Peter moved with lightning speed. He was across the room, hand over hers
,
before she could have ejected a bullet from the barrel of the gun and shot him.

He looked into her eyes, slid his fingers over her skin. Her outstretched hand trembled, his slow caress tightening her stomach. He gripped her wrist, tugged her close.

Licking her suddenly dry lips, she said,
“
The bullet hit him from the front, right between the eyes. He wouldn
’
t have let himself get shot in the head. Not by Grady or anyone else.
”

Peter loosened his grip and slid his palm up her arm, over her shoulder, and down her back. Cupping her waist, he pulled until the fronts of their bodies touched. She sucked in a small breath. No longer protected by a bulky coat, her thin slacks and even thinner blouse absorbed his heat.

“
Maybe he wasn
’
t expecting Grady to pull out a gun. Your theory only proves he wasn
’
t expecting to be shot or else he would have moved,
”
he said, his voice husky and rich with the promise of pleasure, a strange combination considering their topic.

He drew her onto the tips of her toes, bent and brushed his nose against hers. She pressed a shaky hand against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart raced. The instinct to pull him close warred with self-preservation. This man could hurt her, had hurt her, in so many ways. At the last minute, before his lips could descend upon hers, she pushed away from him.