Leslie Parrish - Fade To Black

By the time she was finished, her face was wet with tears. No, she wasn’t sobbing as she had Saturday night. This was low, deep-down, quiet grief straight from her soul.

At some point in the telling, he’d reached over and physically pulled her off her seat into his lap. Her arms were curled around his shoulders, his around her waist. Her mouth close to his throat, the whispers kept coming.

Until, at last, they were done. She was done.

He had murmured sweet, soothing sounds, holding her close, kissing her face, and wiping away her tears. He never interrupted, never asked unimportant questions. He didn’t offer trite words of comfort about how life went on or how bad he felt for the families.

Instead, between one brush of his lips on her cheek and the next, he whispered four others that were completely unexpected.

“You’re not alone anymore.”

They drifted into her consciousness, settling down deep inside. The certainty that he meant it filled her with possibility and with wonder. And brought her peace.

She drifted to sleep, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. Only for a few minutes, judging by the time on the clock when she awoke. Still, it was late-after three. And they had to be back on the job in a few hours.

Sitting up, she said, “I guess we should both go get some sleep.”

He nodded.

“Do you want to go back to the inn?”

He shook his head.

She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath, waiting for his answer. It rushed out in a gush. “Is that going to be a problem? With Stokes and Mulrooney, I mean?”

“You know, right now, I don’t give a damn.”

She smiled. He smiled back. And their lips came together in a sweet, tender kiss that soon turned into a deeper, more intimate one. She shifted her head, parting her lips, licking at him with lazy hunger. Dean moved one hand to her back, tracing a slow path up and down her spine. The other moved down to her lap to stroke her with butterfly caresses that had her pulse pounding in anticipation.

“Let’s go,” she said when the kiss ended.

“Will I be breaking laws if I drive your car?” he asked. “You look so tired.”

“I’m not too tired,” she pointed out. Somehow, despite all the tension, emotion, and pressure, a low, sultry chuckle spilled from her mouth. “But yes, you drive. My legs are shaking all of a sudden.”

He gently slid her off his lap and got out of the car to walk around to the driver’s side. Stacey curled up, turning a little to watch him. When he started the car, the dashboard lights sent pools of soft yellow illumination onto him, highlighting the masculine angles of his face and the shapely mouth she’d just been kissing.

“Drive fast, okay?” she said. Because though she needed sleep, she needed him more.

“I don’t want to get a ticket.” He didn’t look over, but she’d bet there was a twinkle in his eye.

True to his word, he drove quickly, not breaking any land records, but not exactly obeying the speed limit, either. She understood the urgency. The confession she’d made, the gentleness and then the sweet hint of passion they’d shared, had them both on edge, needing more, wanting more. Connection. They both hungered for it.

When they reached her house and walked hand in hand to the porch, however, she quickly realized she wouldn’t be getting that connection. Not yet, anyway. Shards of broken glass glittered in the ruined window frame beside the front door, and the door was open a few inches.

Her house had been broken into.

God, would this nightmare of a day never end?

“Stace?” he asked, obviously realizing at the same moment that the slim front window had been smashed. Easy enough for someone to reach around and undo the lock. So much for safe, small-town living.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

“Shh.” He went immediately on alert, pulling his.40-caliber, pushing the unlocked door inward. It made a long, low squeak that seemed to demolish the silence, but probably couldn’t be heard any farther than a few feet away. Putting a hand out to stop her from going in, Dean stepped in front of her. “Let me look.”

She knew what he was looking for. Steeling herself for the possibility that the same sick, twisted bastard had left her another bloody surprise, inside her house this time, she allowed him to enter first. But she stayed close behind him.

There was no sign of anything wrong. Nothing else appeared broken except the window. As far as she could see in the dim lighting, the living room looked normal, everything in place.

But she suddenly wondered something. Why was there dim lighting?

Light shone down the hall from her bedroom. Not too bright, probably not from the overhead but maybe her bedside lamp. “I didn’t leave it on,” she whispered.

He nodded, putting a finger across his lips in a gesture for silence.

They crept down the short hallway, tense and alert, both with weapons in upraised hands, like two matching shadows. Honestly, Stacey wasn’t sure what she was going to find. Someone lying in wait? Another dead animal? Her belongings scattered or destroyed? Anything was possible.

Anything except what she saw when they entered the bedroom.

A tall, lean man stood beside her bed. He had one hand up to his mouth, making low grunting noises into the small bit of pale pink fabric he held there. Judging by the jumble of items spilling out of the open top drawer of her dresser, she immediately suspected he held her panties.

Swallowing her disgust, she looked down. And almost gagged.

His pants were shoved to his knees and he stood directly above her bed, leaning against it. His other hand was wrapped around a fully erect penis, and he was pumping wildly, obviously intending to spew all over her bedspread.

“You motherfucker,” Dean said, sounding not just disgusted but absolutely livid.

The man froze in shock and dropped the panties. Dean leaped, taking the guy down with two sharp blows to the face.

Stacey, meanwhile, couldn’t even move. Or say a word. She was too racked with disgust and humiliation at having been violated, even when she hadn’t even been at home.

With those emotions came pure shock. Because she’d caught a glimpse of the intruder’s face before Dean had beaten him to the floor.

It was Rob Monroe.

“He’s a sick degenerate. Is it possible he’s also the Reaper?”

Dean didn’t really expect Stacey to answer; he’d been speaking more to himself. The two of them stood in her office back at the station, having hauled in the pervert who’d broken into her house. The guy had protested, screamed about his father the mayor, claimed it was all a mistake, then started crying.

Well, actually, he’d been crying all along. Ever since Dean’s first punch had crunched into his cheekbone.

“Is it possible?” she asked. “Sure. Anything’s possible, isn’t it?” Stacey, who looked so bone-weary she appeared on the verge of dropping, rubbed an exhausted hand over her eyes. “Do I think so? No.”

“You know he killed your dad’s dog.”

“He swears he hit her by accident when he was angry and out looking for me. That he did the rest only after Lady was dead.”

“And you believe that?”

She didn’t answer, looking as though she really didn’t want to know the truth right now. Maybe it was easier to believe that version, and he supposed it was at least possible. Even if it was true, Monroe was one sick bastard.

“I do suspect he’s the one who’s made some late-night anonymous calls to me this week.”

He gawked, not having heard that part before now. “He’s obviously unstable.”

Judging by the things Monroe said in the back of Stacey’s squad car, he had been for a long time. He seemed to think he was in love with her because she’d had the really bad judgment to go out with him once when they were teenagers. He’d been obsessing about her since the day she’d come back to town.