Kathleen Creighton - Memory of Murder

“I don’t know,” he said again, cautiously. “Is it?”

“I think so.” She touched her streaming nose with the back of her hand, then whispered, shaking her head, “But I don’t know who he is. That’s not my dad.”

“Lindsey…”

“Who is that-that boy? That man? ” She held up both hands, backing away from him as he reached toward her. “That’s not my father! That’s not my dad!”

Her hands were flat against his chest, her eyes squeezed shut. Then his arms came around her, holding her tightly, and now, instead of her hand it was her cheek that lay against his chest. She drew a convulsive breath, and his hand came to cradle her head, turning it so the sob that burst from her was muffled in the warm crispness of his shirt. He held her like that and let her cry, not saying anything, only rearranging his arms to enfold her more closely and pressing his face against her damp hair.

And presently, when she’d grown quieter, he began to stroke her back, softly…gently…and she thought it was the most incredibly good thing she’d felt in a very long time. She couldn’t remember any man ever touching her quite like that before, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift her head from his shoulder and tilt her face up to his. And the most natural thing in the world for him to close the very small distance that remained, and kiss her.

I am not sure what made me choose the woman to die first. I think perhaps I wanted to spare her the agony of watching her husband die. Maybe she had softened my heart, a little bit, after all. Yes, even then.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

For the first time, he kissed her without pretense or role-playing, with no one watching, no one to impress or mislead. Kissed her simply because he wanted to, and because it seemed so natural and right that it was almost impossible not to. Kissed her the way he wanted to, without counting the seconds- Long enough? Too long? -or worrying how an onlooker would judge it. Too intimate? Not intimate enough?

She smelled sweet, like shampoo and soap, but tasted of the salt tears she’d shed. Her lips quivered slightly when they first touched his. Then they grew soft, and warm…and became his, became a part of him, that part he kept locked away most of the time, the part that was gentle and giving and that needed, most of all, to love. It had been a long time since he’d opened up that part of himself to a woman, and he did so now with a sense of profound happiness. A ball of warmth filled his chest-warmth that felt like sunshine. Like joy.

Needing, finally, to release some of that happiness, he broke the kiss with a soft, bemused laugh, his hands cupping the rounds of her shoulders, gently kneading. She turned her face to one side and laughed, too, although the sound she made seemed more wounded than joyful. He wondered if it was that or his own need that prompted him to slide his hands upward along her neck to cradle her head when he should have been letting her go…saying no…stepping away. But then she tipped back her head and those thick lashes lifted, and he found himself gazing into those incredible eyes, and he didn’t wonder or question or think a single moment longer.

For a long, long moment she looked into his eyes, while his thumbs stroked her temples, cheekbones…and into her hair. He watched her eyes grow slumberous, the lashes flutter down, and he dipped his head and, with great tenderness, kissed the dampness there. He brushed his lips across the velvety skin of her cheek and felt desire crawl along his nerve endings like flames licking oil. And when she let her head fall back into his hands, offering her throat to his questing mouth, he took it, but quivering with restraint, half-afraid of his own hunger.

Her breath escaped in a sigh, stirring his hair. He felt her move, shift slightly as she untied the belt on her robe, and he let his hands slide down, slipping under the robe, into the humid warmth beneath. She was so warm…her skin still moist and fragrant from her shower. Her bones, woman’s bones, small and slight beneath silken skin and delicate muscle, nevertheless seemed to pulsate beneath his palms with strength and energy and life.

Desire flooded through him, all but overwhelmed him. He’d never known such hunger for a woman. Which is why it was such a shock to him when he heard his own voice saying, “No.”

She murmured something, and he felt her sway under his hands, just a little, as if she’d been buffeted by an unexpected gust of wind. Feeling battered himself, he tugged her robe back together and stood for a moment with his eyes closed, breathing hard. “Bad idea,” he murmured, half to himself. On so many levels.

She didn’t argue with him. Didn’t protest, or beg, or ask why, although he could feel her body trembling and knew she must be as overcome with desire and disappointment as he was.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a rasping voice, and she only nodded, standing very still, neither moving toward him nor away.

It hit him, then, what a rare woman she was, and how much he liked her. Respected her. Valued her. Wanted her. Voices clamoured in the back of his mind-maybe in front of it, too-strident, derisive, frustrated, confounded voices. You idiot, what more do you want? She suits you, in so many ways. She’s everything you could ever want in a woman, and then some. She’s perfect for you, and you’re a fool. You’re going to regret this.

Probably. Almost certainly. Which only made it all the harder to tell himself this was the way it had to be.

Lindsey turned away from him, finally, one arm folded across her waist, hand clutching the collar of her robe. With the other she reached out and touched the photo of the wedding couple as she stared down at it.

“So,” she said in a flat, muffled voice, “it’s true then? My father is not my father, and my mother is not who I thought she was…it’s all true?”

Alan had to clear his throat before he could answer her. “I’m still connecting the dots. I’ll tell you everything I know so far, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to do it on the way.”

“On the way?” She lifted her head to frown at him. “Where?”

“That’s…why I came over, actually. Do you have any plans for the rest of the day? This evening? We probably won’t get back until pretty late.”

“No-no, I don’t have any plans… Back from where?”

“Los Angeles. One of those dots that needs connecting. A private investigator…” He caught a breath. No way in hell he was telling her who he suspected this private investigator might be, not when she was so vulnerable. Not when he was so susceptible to her vulnerability. He’d managed to tell himself no once; he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to do it twice. “I think he might have some answers for us. He lives in Laurel Canyon, and according to his wife, he should be home and available to see us this evening. If we leave now, we can make it before dinnertime-it’s a weekend, so traffic shouldn’t be a problem.” Although, he reminded himself, with the L.A. freeways, you never knew.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” she said, and headed for the stairs.

He’d been right about the traffic, although he’d forgotten to take into account the storm traveling down the coast from its birthplace in the Gulf of Alaska. California’s winter storms were late arriving this year; normally, by mid-November there would have been at least one good rain, but this year the jetstream had stayed stubbornly to the north, carrying the long-awaited rains off to the east before they had a chance to do more than sprinkle on Orange County and points south. It looked like this one might make it all the way to San Diego, good news for a city operating on permanent water conservation protocols.