Virna DePaul - It Started That Night

“Nothing. I gave up what I wanted a long time ago.”

Her pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

“You have to know it wasn’t easy for me to turn you away that night. In fact, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

Feeling sucker punched, she couldn’t believe he’d actually brought that night up. Humiliation filled her as she remembered what she’d said to him. How she’d clung to him, devastated that he was leaving town, begging him to wait for her. The way his friends had laughed at her.

“I threw myself at you. You mocked me. You kissed Stacy in front of me!”

He advanced on her so fast she couldn’t have run even if she’d had room. Bracing his arms on the door on either side of her, he leaned down until she could smell his spicy cologne and sun-kissed skin.

She suddenly had the feeling he was fighting to keep his hands off her. She shivered in fear and unwanted desire.

“You were sixteen! Even if I wasn’t too old for you, your father thought I was a petty thug. You already hated him because he’d left your mother. I was causing nothing but problems for you. What did you want me to do?”

Love me! she almost shouted. Like I loved you. But she choked back the words, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper. “All I want is for you to leave us alone. Leave me alone. Assign someone else to the case. You can work the recent murders without having to interact with me or my family.”

The flare of anger in his eyes dissipated. He pushed away from her and shook his head, pity flooding his eyes. “I’m not going to do that. I can help. This isn’t just about your mother anymore. It’s about you. Two of the three girls look—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” She looked at the ground and felt the fight leave her body. She’d beg him if she had to. She raised her gaze to his and forced herself not to look away. “Please, John. I fought with my mother that night. And then afterward, when I found her—she was lying there—killed by a man I—I’d befriended—”

Her voice broke and she struggled to breathe.

“Your mother’s death wasn’t your fault, Lily. And it wasn’t mine. But this isn’t going to just go away. And neither am I.”

Propping her hands on her hips, she thrust out her jaw, the words coming out before she could stop them. “My father’s a judge now. I’m sure he can arrange to have this reassigned to someone who didn’t know the victim or the witnesses.”

John’s eyes narrowed and his smile made her shiver. He dropped his bag with a thump and once again moved toward her. “I don’t like being threatened, Lily. And I’m sure your father wouldn’t do something so foolish. Let the experts do what needs to be done, small fry.”

She tried to shove him away, but he grasped her wrists, easily holding her hands against his chest. Her fingers flexed, wanting to sink deeper into his taut muscles. Wanting to pull him closer.

Whimpering, she pulled away and he released her. Jaw clenched tight, he glanced down a split second before his horror-filled eyes met her own.

She looked at the bloody images. Her mother. Her beautiful mother. Nausea rushed straight into her throat.

John cursed. “I’m so sorry, Lily—”

Backing away from him and shaking her head, she whispered, “Why are you doing this?” She fumbled for the doorknob behind her.

“Lily—”

Finally, she got the door open, stumbled inside, then stared at him one last time.

“I just want to help, small fry.”

“Then leave me alone.” With bone-shattering control, she closed the door and engaged the lock with a quiet click.

John swiped his hands over his face in frustration. Damn, that had gone even worse than he’d expected. He shoved the photos and papers that had fallen back into his satchel. Standing, hands on his hips, he stared at Lily’s front door, cursed, then made his way to his car. Once inside, he simply stared some more at Lily’s house.

He hated it.

The small blue-shingled A-frame with black shutters fit in well with the cozy downtown Sacramento neighborhood. Older but not outdated. Paint holding up well. Certainly nothing extravagant. But it had a generic green lawn. No flowers. No decorations. No welcome mat. It was simple and quiet.

It reminded him of Ravenswood, the rehabilitation clinic she’d been admitted to after her mother’s murder, the place he’d visited her only once before her agonized screams had chased him away, resolved never to come back. And it wasn’t at all what he’d imagined for her.

Even at sixteen, Lily Cantrell had been complex. Colorful. Unpredictable. Dark, soulful eyes. A crease in her left cheek that never quite developed into a dimple when she smiled. A quick laugh and quicker temper.

She’d been more complex than her staid, generic home revealed. She still was.

And she was more beautiful than ever.

Her face was a mix of her father’s Anglo background and her mother’s Asian roots, pale skin with freckles and slightly slanted eyes. She still had shiny dark hair and a petite frame, but she’d gained enough weight to give her luscious breasts and hips where before she’d had none.

Her mouth seemed different, too. Less innocent. More sinful. Soft and full.

Rolling his shoulders, he closed his eyes. He’d hoped the passage of time and his current assignment would create some kind of natural barrier against any lingering feelings they had for one another, good or bad. He should have known it wouldn’t happen.

He’d always felt a strong connection to Lily. She’d been the ultimate good girl and he the neighborhood bad boy, but they’d been drawn to one another, first by the friendship between their mothers, then by the sheer pleasure of each other’s company. Eventually, he’d trusted her in a way he hadn’t even trusted his own family. Years ago, when his girlfriend Stacy Mitchell had accused him of dealing drugs, he’d told Lily the reason she’d done it—to hide the fact that she’d been doing it herself. That her father hit her and her uncle had done far worse. Wanting to protect Stacy despite what she’d done, he’d cautioned Lily not to tell anyone. She’d believed him and refused to give up their friendship, causing enormous strife between her and her parents.

Lily’s relationship with her cop father had suffered the most, leaving Lily particularly vulnerable when Chris Hardesty, a homeless man who had started hanging around at a nearby park, befriended her. Eventually, it was that friendship that had led Hardesty to Lily’s mother, Tina.

John reached for his cell phone and dialed the office number of Deputy Attorney General Lucas Thorn.

“Hi,” he said when the man answered. “This is John. I just saw Lily Cantrell and she wasn’t happy about it. Don’t be surprised if you get a call from Judge Cantrell fairly soon.”

“Damn. I was hoping she’d cooperate. Doesn’t she get we’re trying to speed Hardesty’s execution along, not stall it?”

John frowned at Thorn’s choice of words. He wasn’t trying to speed anything along, just trying to make sure both The Razor and Tina’s murderer were brought to justice, regardless of whether they were the same person or not. He knew Thorn wanted the same thing—he was probably just frustrated that the governor was taking Hardesty’s claims about The Razor seriously. “Did you tell the governor that a patch of Sandy LaMonte’s hair had been shaven, too, just like the girls before her?”

Thorn sighed on the other line. “I did. He doesn’t see it as a significant deviation from how Tina died. She was stabbed just like Tina. And as you already pointed out yourself, LaMonte looks even more like Tina than the victims before her.”

More like Tina. And more like Lily, John thought. Which was the only reason he was here. Once again, he stared at Lily’s door, as if doing so would give him another glimpse of the young girl who’d turned into a beautiful albeit mistrustful woman.