Erica Spindler - Dead Run

“Sam was five. He woke up. He was frightened. I heard him call out for…her. Even though she had been gone a while, when he was really scared, he cried out for her. Sometimes at night…I still wake up and hear him. He-”

His voice broke. Liz went to him. She took him in her arms and held him. He bent his head to hers. He trembled.

Seconds ticked past. His trembling ceased. He met her gaze.

“I shot him, Liz. My bullet. Ballistics proved it was my bullet that killed him.”

Liz squeezed her eyes shut, aching for him. How did one rebound from that? How did one pick up the pieces and move on?

“It should have been me. I wish it had been.”

She brought a hand to his mouth. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.” His eyes filled with tears. “I loved him so much.”

Liz cupped his face in her palms and brought his mouth to hers. She kissed him softly at first, offering the only real comfort she could. “I’m sorry,” she whispered against his mouth. “So very sorry.”

She moved her mouth to his cheeks, his eyelids, his chin and neck. With a soft moan, he slipped his arms around her, drawing her closer, fitting himself to her.

Their mouths met again, this time deeply. His tongue found hers. She felt his growing response to her touch. A thread of fear wound its way through her. She hadn’t intended for this to happen. It wasn’t smart. Or cautious. She didn’t know if she was ready.

She hadn’t been with anyone since Jared.

And he had betrayed her.

Liz shut her mind to the fear. Smart or not, she wanted to be with this man.

Liz broke the kiss and met his eyes. “Come with me.”

She caught his right hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom. There, wordlessly, they undressed one another and sank to the bed. Their mouths met first and for long moments they kissed, not touching in any other way.

Soon, the pressure of their mouths alone wasn’t enough and Liz became bolder. She ran her hands over his shoulders, then chest. She liked his body, the feel of it under her palms-the swell of muscles, the texture of his skin, the subtle angles.

Liz skimmed her hands over his hips and abdomen, then lower. He sucked in a swift breath as she found and held him.

She would have liked to show restraint. To have held back and let him lead. But that wasn’t the way she felt. She wasn’t a game player, never had been. She saw a flaw, she pointed it out. She saw inequality, she worked to fix it. She wanted something, she went after it. Those weren’t ladylike qualities. They didn’t make her mysterious. During their divorce, her ex-husband had thrown those up at her as a reason he had strayed.

But she couldn’t change who she was.

So it was she who straddled him. She who drew him inside her. And she who increased the pace to a heated frenzy.

But it was Rick who, as their passion peaked, took charge. Rick who, with a final, deep thrust, claimed her for his.

For long moments, they lay quietly, unmoving as their hearts and breath slowed, as their flesh cooled. As the seconds ticked past, their silence became heavy, awkward.

He broke it first. “I don’t know quite what to say.”

She swallowed hard, understanding, feeling the same. How could she explain that he had comforted her as much as she had him? That his passion had revived her. That his sounds of pleasure had restored her confidence in her ability to please a lover. She felt alive again. Desirable. Totally female.

She’d thought Jared had killed her ability to feel those things.

Her lips curved up, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her. “I’m not sorry, you know. I refuse to be.”

“Did I say I was?” Chuckling, he rolled onto his side, bringing her with him. “What kind of man do you think I am? Mind-blowing sex never goes in that category. It doesn’t work that way.”

They fell silent again, though this time without the awkwardness of earlier. After a time, Liz met his eyes. “What did Lopez say when you told him about the Horned Flower?”

Rick didn’t answer immediately, and she knew. “Your friend thinks Mark did it. Right?”

“He thinks there’s more than probable cause there, yes.”

“Of course, he’s the same one who thought Naomi Pearson ran off,” she said softly, but with an edge of bitterness.

“I owe Val my life, Liz. After Sam’s death I wanted to give up. Without Val, I would have.” He looked away, then back. “He’s my oldest friend. And he’s a good cop.”

“A good cop? Really? You could have fooled me. He hasn’t called one right yet.” He remained silent and she pressed on. “What about the Horned Flower, Rick? What about my sister’s drawing and Tara’s tattoo?”

“What about them?” he retorted, voice tight. “As Val pointed out, Tara could have shown your sister the tattoo and then your sister sketched it in her notes. Tara could have gotten the tattoo during the time she was in your sister’s care and-”

“But none of that explains what the symbol represents…I think it represents this group Mark told us about. I think my sister was scared of them. I think the Horned Flower is the group she mentioned in her phone message.”

“That’s all well and good, Liz. But what proof do you have?” He didn’t give her a chance to reply. “It may represent some underground group here on the island. But there’s a second victim now, Liz. And I have a hard time believing this group of teenagers is responsible for killing not only Tara, but Naomi Pearson, too.”

Eyes burning, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She didn’t know what or who to believe. Rick made a lot of sense. She had worked out the scenario of why the Horned Flower had killed Tara, but why Naomi Pearson? It didn’t make sense.

But she believed in Mark. She believed in her sister. Rachel had uncovered a conspiracy. She had been afraid for her life.

“What if you’re wrong, Liz?” Rick asked. “What if there’s no Horned Flower and no conspiracy? What if Mark is guilty?”

She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, then turned her face to his. “But what if I’m not?”

Sunday, November 18

8:00 p.m.

Rick entered the Hideaway, his thoughts filled with Liz and what had occurred between them. The sex had been incredible. They fit together in a way new lovers rarely did-there had been no awkward moments or ill-timed moves. No sense of having to try to please the other; pleasing had come naturally.

A swell of denial rose up in him. Rick swallowed hard against it. And against the guilt that followed.

Jill was dead. What had occurred between him and Liz hadn’t been cheating.

Then why did it feel as if it had been?

Visual memories of Jill and Sam, their lives together, filled his head, one after another. The day Sam was born. His first birthday party. The adoring way he’d looked up at Rick when he tucked him into bed each night. Jill, the day they were married, looking like an angel in white lace; the first time they made love. Her laughing at his and Sam’s nightly horseplay.

Beautiful memories. So sweet they hurt.

But not unbearably. Not anymore.

“About time, Rick,” Margo called from behind the bar. “We were about to send out a search posse.”

“That’s right,” Libby chimed in, grinning. “I just hope you were having a good time.”

He supposed mind-blowing sex could be categorized as that.

Damn, he felt like a teenager caught in the act.

He reached the bar and forced what he hoped was a casual grin. “You girls were able to handle this crowd without me?” He shifted his gaze to the nearly empty barroom. “Wow, I’m impressed.”

“Smart-ass.” Margo emptied her tip jar, quickly counted the bills, then dumped the coins into her change purse. “And now you can handle it without me.”