Allison Brennan - Cutting Edge

Overwhelming despair washed over Leif Cole as the sheriff drove him home from the morgue. Anya was dead and Leif felt more than partly responsible.

She’d been so upset when she found out someone had died in the fire at Butcher-Payne, Leif should have stayed with her. He’d never imagined she’d kill herself.

He also knew that if Jonah Payne had been murdered in cold blood, Anya had played no part in it. She wouldn’t kill any living creature intentionally. Nothing Sheriff Lance Sanger or FBI agent English said would ever convince him otherwise. The arson? Yes. Murder? Never.

Lance turned down the long driveway that led to Leif’s small but private ranch house in pricey Granite Bay. His former friend had been surprisingly kind during the morgue visit and subsequent drive. Leif had been in no shape to pick up his own car that he’d left at Rose College when Lance arrested him, but he could call a friend for a ride or get a taxi tomorrow. If he went to classes tomorrow. He had a lot of thinking to do. Thinking and mourning.

Anya had been too young to die.

“Thank you,” Leif said, his hand on the door handle.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Lance said, distinctly uncomfortable.

“She’s gone,” Leif whispered. He cleared his throat. “She didn’t kill Jonah Payne, not in the way Agent English said.”

“I’m not going to discuss the investigation with you.”

“Fine, just listen then. Anya made mistakes, but her motivations were good. Murder-it’s not in her blood. I can’t believe she killed herself. I don’t know if I believe it.”

“We’re investigating all three deaths thoroughly,” Lance said. “I assure you we’ll find out what happened.”

“It won’t bring her back.” His voice caught in his throat.

Lance shifted in his seat, and Leif knew it would be expecting too much to ask him to come in for a drink. Lance was a cop, but more than his career, Lance didn’t understand why Leif believed so passionately in his ideas. Time had divided them, and ideas kept them apart. When your core values differed, there was no seeing eye-to-eye.

“I know, don’t leave town,” Leif said, opening the door.

“Leif-” Lance began.

Leif glanced at him.

Lance said, “I’m sorry I was a jerk when you came back from college. I missed our friendship, and you weren’t the same.”

“We all grow up. You changed too,” Leif said. “We aren’t the same kids we were. But I’ll never forget when we put the dead skunk in Ms. Knudson’s office after she accused us of cheating.”

Lance grinned. “She knew it was us, but could never prove it. She couldn’t get the stink out for weeks.”

“Thanks for driving me home,” Leif said, leaving the rest unspoken.

“Do you want company for a while?” Lance offered.

Leif almost took him up on it. Almost. Instead he shook his head. “I need time alone.”

“Don’t drink too much.”

“I won’t. I’m okay, I just need to think.” Leif got out and walked to his front door. He rarely came in this entrance, usually pulling into the garage and coming through the kitchen door. He fumbled for his keys, found the right one, and waved as the sheriff drove away.

Leif stood on his porch for a minute and looked up at the stars. It was a beautiful night, a night that Anya would have appreciated. She loved the stars, the vast space, the entire earth. She cared about everyone and everything, with a sincere compassion that few people possessed. The world was worse off with Anya gone.

He squeezed his burning eyes closed and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d loved her. Damn, he loved her. There was no bringing her back.

He pushed the door open and slammed it closed. He’d promised Lance he wouldn’t drink much, but he needed something to dull the pain in his heart. Something to help him sleep. A triple shot of whiskey might help. A hot shower.

Leif grabbed his sole bottle of whiskey, Chivas Regal that the dean had given him last year when he’d had an article published in a prestigious academic journal. He took it and a water glass to his bathroom, poured a near-full glass, and took a large sip. The liquid burned his throat the way his eyes burned from the pain of losing Anya. Spread the pain, he thought, and coughed out a sob.

He turned on the shower, stripped, leaving his clothes in the middle of the bathroom floor. He took another long drink of whiskey, this one sliding down much easier.

The water was still cold when he stepped into the shower, but he didn’t care. Physical discomfort was nothing compared with the pain inside.

The water warmed and he sobbed, bawling like a little kid, and sank to the tile floor of his shower. He’d failed Anya in so many ways.

It was a long time later before he emerged. Leif wrapped a towel around his waist and reached for his glass of Chivas. He drained the remainder and considered pouring another, but his stomach churned. He should never have drunk whiskey on an empty stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten … breakfast? Coffee and a scone. Hardly a meal.

He rummaged through the kitchen cabinets looking for crackers or chips, light-headed and dizzy. He grabbed a box and stumbled into his bedroom, collapsing uneasily into his reading chair. He closed his eyes, head spinning. He knew better than to drink. He was such a lightweight.

He drifted to sleep. Anya …

A sharp pain in his arm startled him. Leif didn’t feel awake. His head was thick, as if he had a hangover. A bad hangover. From a couple shots of whiskey? Maybe. Had he drunk more and not remembered?

He tried to stretch, to shake the cobwebs from his mind, but his limbs were heavy, he couldn’t move. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt plastered shut.

A light, flowery scent consumed him.

A woman. Perfume. Not a scent he was familiar with. Not Anya’s. Anya was dead.

Someone was in his house.

“What?” His tongue was thick.

“Good fucking morning,” a female voice said, her breath on his face.

He forced his eyes open, squinting, the lights too bright. He didn’t remember turning on any lights.

“Who are you?” he asked. It sounded like he was hearing himself in a tunnel, complete with an echo. He tried to stand, but stumbled and sank heavily back into his seat. He couldn’t move his hands.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

The realization that someone had broken into his house while he was sleeping-or passed out-and tied him to his chair cleared his head a fraction. And there was something familiar about her voice.

“What? What are you d-doing?” he said, trying to get the words out clearly. He opened his eyes again, slowly, adjusting to the too-bright light.

“It’s your fault. You made me do it.”

Maggie .

Maggie O’Dell? He struggled against his restraints. Duct tape, long pieces over his wrists and taped down the sides of his upholstered chair. He pulled, but couldn’t break free. He looked down the side and saw that the tape had been crisscrossed to better restrain him.

“Maggie?”

He saw her then, her brown hair and big brown eyes. She had always been a beautiful girl, but Leif had never liked her. He didn’t know why.

She slapped him.

“You made me kill her.”

His head spun. “What?”

She slapped him again, then started pacing. The violence cleared his head some and he stared at her. She looked both angry and panicked. When she reached his desk in the corner of his bedroom, she picked up the monitor and threw it against the wall with surprising strength from such a slender girl.

Leif pulled at his restraints, but couldn’t loosen the tape. His fingers were numb.

“Twenty minutes,” Maggie mumbled.