Epiphany (Legacy of Payne) (13 page)

On the comforter sat a note.

No, not a note . . . a birthday card.

Aidan picked up the card, and a photo fell from it. He gripped the image, knuckles turning white as he stared at a woman with tangled dark hair. In the photo, she was still alive. She looked into the camera’s lens, her wide eyes full of horror. Her hands were restrained, her naked breasts burned.

Aidan’s eyes overflowed, drops of despair drenching his face, creeping past unshaven cheeks. He flipped open the card, read the words I wasn’t able to decipher, and then fled the house.

I flew overhead, my invisible string carrying me along as he sped down the highway. He must have been doing ninety, maybe more. The darkening foothills grew larger as we spanned the distance. He pulled off the road and came to a screeching stop, and the door was left open in his haste to take off running. Every so often he halted long enough to glance down at the birthday card. Whatever was written there must have led him here, to this place in the middle of nowhere.

By the time brush gave way to spotted trees, the sun had disappeared from the sky. Aidan didn’t have a flashlight, though the oversight didn’t slow him down. He kept moving, stepping over rocky terrain, climbing higher, lower, and higher still. I tasted his fear, almost choked on it. I wanted to pull him back and embrace him, tell him not to go any further.

I knew what he was going to find.

A lone tree came into view, its branches streaking the night like thick snakes reaching for heaven. My heart stopped. A slim figure hung from one of the lower limbs.

“Deb!” His scream ricocheted through every cell in my body. I reached for him as he struggled to cut the rope, ached to hold him when he fell to the ground under the weight of his wife’s limp body.

I grasped nothing but air, existing in a state of helplessness, condemned to watch as he tried to breathe life back into her lungs as if his love alone could bring about a miracle. He finally gave up and gathered her into his arms, buried his face in her hair, and cried for the longest time . . .

I shot up in bed with a choked gasp, my feet tangled in the sheets as sweat trickled down my temple. A figure stood in the doorway blocking the light from the hall. I didn’t immediately recognize Aidan’s guest bedroom. All at once the details of the previous night—finding the picture of Aidan’s wife in my apartment—blended with the disturbing echoes of my venture into his past.

My gut insisted I’d witnessed the truth . . . history without embellishment. I’d wanted to see Aidan in my dreams, and now I had. How ironic that I’d give anything to erase the knowledge from my mind. His pain lanced as deeply as my own. I peeked at him now as he entered the room. He crouched in front of me, and I suddenly realized how exposed my bare legs were underneath my T-shirt. I clutched the blanket and covered myself.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. “Just a nightmare,” I mumbled.

“Did you . . . see something?”

I jerked my head back and forth, a too-quick denial, and clenched my fists to keep them from shaking. My gaze fell to my lap.

He wouldn’t allow me to withdraw. He tilted my head up. “Talk to me,” he coaxed.

I shook my head again. “What time is it?”

He looked as if he wanted to push, but he let it go instead. “Six-thirty.” He stood and wandered to the window where he parted the curtains. “I couldn’t sleep. When I heard your cries . . .” He swallowed. “I thought something was wrong. I thought he’d broken in somehow.”

A chill traveled down my spine. I was officially terrified now, had been since finding the sicko’s trophy on my bed. Spending two hours at the police station hadn’t eased my fear. The sheriff’s concern matched Aidan’s, and they had both been adamant about my needing protection. Returning to my apartment was going to cause a huge argument, especially since Aidan had vowed not to let me out of his sight.

Not that I was anxious to go home, but I couldn’t stay in his guestroom forever, and going back home to Eugene . . . I liked that idea even less. The Boise Hangman had killed in two states; what was to stop him from following me?

Maybe the real question was why me? Aidan had said the killer held a grudge. Is that why he murdered his wife? Was he now after me because of Aidan? Or because we’d found Six?

“I’ll make breakfast.” His statement startled me. “Come on up when you’re ready, okay?”

“Okay.” An instant later he was gone, and I listened to his heavy footsteps on the stairs.

The first light of day peeked through the curtains, and my mind went to work crafting crazy ideas Aidan would swear made no sense, but somehow made all the sense in the world to me. No, he wasn’t going to like the thoughts formulating in my head.

I pulled on my jeans underneath the soft T-shirt he’d loaned me to sleep in. A scent that was Aidan, something unique that no detergent or cologne could replicate, brought about conflicting emotions. Temptation won, and the shirt remained where it belonged—snuggled around my body. I finger-combed my short hair and headed for the stairs.

Aidan was barefoot in the kitchen flipping pancakes on a griddle. God help me, but what a sight. The sweats he wore hugged his hips to the point of distraction. I was thankful he’d pulled on a shirt; I would have been as red as a tomato if he’d stood bare-chested doing something as domestic as cooking. I’d never considered the act of cooking so sexy until that moment.

He turned around and smiled at me, dimples and all. “I hope you like pancakes.”

“I love them.” I settled onto a barstool at the center island and ran my palm across the cold granite. “How did you become so good in the kitchen?”

“My wife was a great cook. I picked up a few things from her.” He turned off the stove and carried two stacks of golden pancakes to the island. “Anything I make is like ramen noodles compared to what she could do in the kitchen.” He took the barstool next to mine.

I buttered my stack and tried to keep my expression neutral. His words had taken me straight back into my dream. “She was a good teacher. I can barely boil water,” I said between bites.

He chuckled. “You couldn’t be that bad.”

“No, it’s true. I burn everything. My mom says there was no such thing as ‘burning water’ before I was born.”

The corners of his mouth twitched into another smile. “Are you and your mother close?”

“I guess so.” My stomach dropped, and I stared out the window at the lightening gray as I shoveled another bite into my mouth. The weight of his stare heated my face. I sensed the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure out if he should push for more information or let it drop.

“The truth about your father . . . is that why you feel you can’t go home?”

“It’s a lot of things.” I hated how my voice shook, how allowing my thoughts to drift anywhere near 
that
 night still filled me with terror. My mom wasn’t the only problem. I pushed my plate away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have no right to pry.”

I faced him with a tentative smile. “Where does your family live?”

“My parents live in Seattle.”

“Do you visit them often?”

“No.” He grabbed our plates, and I sensed him withdrawing again. The man did 
not
 like to talk about himself. The observation only heightened my curiosity.

I joined him at the sink. “Now I guess I’m the one doing the prying.”

He rinsed the few dishes from breakfast before he spoke. “You’re not prying. My family is just complicated. I haven’t spoken to my father in years.”

“I’m sorry, I had no idea,” I said, not sure what else to say. Every time I tried to get answers from him, I only ended up with more questions. “What about the rest of your family?”

“I keep in contact with my mother, and my brother and I are pretty close, all things considered.” He gestured toward the living room. “Would you like to sit down?”

I nodded, recognizing a shift in conversation when I saw one. He ushered me into the living room, his hand feathering across the small of my back. I sank into the cool leather of his couch, and Aidan claimed the cushion next to me. Silence blanketed the room as we both studied the gray scene outside. A seagull flew past, chased by its mate. Aidan lightly tapped his foot against the carpet.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked.

I didn’t have to ask what he was referring to. Retelling the dream would only bring him pain, slice open old wounds, or possibly even inflame the rage I feared lurked inside him.

“Is that what all of this chit-chat has been about? You trying to warm me up so you can interrogate me?” I asked, careful to preface the question with a teasing grin.

“Here I thought we were getting to know each other, and you go and accuse me of having ulterior motives.”

“Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do. My motive is to keep you safe.” He leaned forward. “Whatever you dreamed about this morning, it really shook you up. Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw the night you found your wife.”

His face paled. “You dreamed of Deb?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see him?” He scooted closer and held onto the soft leather underneath us.

“No,” I said quietly, “Just you. Your house, the candles in the bedroom, the birthday card and banner, the . . . the picture of her.” I lowered my eyes because facing him tore me up—he was remembering that night right along with me. “I watched you find her.”

“You saw everything as if you were there?”

“I didn’t mean to see it.” I felt like a voyeur, but I witnessed the morbid instead of people undressing.

He shifted on the couch again, bringing his body even closer. “Look at me, Mackenzie.” I raised my eyes to his. “Don’t ever apologize for your gift.”

“It’s not a gift. It’s a curse.”

“Nothing about you is cursed. It can’t be easy, seeing what you do in your dreams.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What happened? Why did he . . .? I mean, from what I saw, it didn’t seem random.”

“It wasn’t.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “He sent me on a wild goose chase that day. Deb had been missing for two days. When I got home . . . well you saw it. It was personal. Not random at all.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

He shook his head. “Sickos like him don’t need reasons. He used to send letters to my paper. After a while he addressed them to me. Challenges, taunts. I got too involved with the case.” His breath shuddered out. “No, that’s an understatement. I was obsessed, and Deb paid the price for it.”

“It’s not your fault, Aidan.”

He didn’t agree or deny it; instead he sidestepped the subject of guilt entirely. “These dreams of yours, they might be the key to finding him.”

“Yeah, about that . . . I have an idea.”

He raised a brow. “I’m not going to like this idea, am I?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you have that look about you.”

“What look?” I asked. “You don’t know me well enough to know all of my ‘looks’ yet.”

“I know trouble when I see it. What are you cooking up in that mind of yours?”

“Nothing. I thought we already went over this. My cooking skills are 
nada
, remember?” I was stalling, and he knew it.

“Just spit it out.”

“Okay, but hear me out first.”

That made him laugh. “I’m all ears, Mackenzie.”

“Well . . . you believe he’s after me next, right?”

Aidan’s jaw tightened. “I pray that I’m wrong.”

“What if you aren’t? The guy got into my apartment. I think we can assume he’s got his eye on me.” I was surprised at how steady my voice was, considering we were talking about a serial killer breaking into my apartment. “We can use this to our advantage.”

He groaned. “You’re not beating around the bush—you’re bludgeoning it to death. Just give it to me already. What’s your idea?”

“I say we use me as bait.”

“I say you’ve lost your mind.”

“It could work . . . it could 
really
 work. We might even be able to get the sheriff’s department involved. Once they catch him, Watcher’s Point will be safe again. Six will have justice. Your wife will have justice.”

“I don’t care about justice!” He gripped my shoulders. “I care about you.”

We were so close that his breath, laced with a hint of maple syrup, teased my lips. My body flushed, and my heart pounded so loudly, I was certain he heard it.

Aidan’s gaze roamed over my face and then stopped on my mouth. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or lock you in a closet and guard the damn door.”

“I vote for kissing, unless you plan to join me in the closet.”

He pulled his anguished eyes back to mine. “You’re killing me,” he whispered, searching my face, and I wondered if he guessed at how often I thought about him—like twenty-four seven.

“Aidan—”

“You need to get this idiotic idea out of your head right now. Over my dead body will you be the bait for a serial killer.” He let go of my shoulders and inched back until we no longer touched.

Disappointment sliced me, sharp enough to cut through bone. In the back of my mind, I wondered if he’d done that on purpose—used the sexual tension between us to knock me off my axis.

“It’s not an 
idiotic
 idea.” I glared at him.

“What other term should I use, Mackenzie? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Not if we work together. He’s after me anyway. Why not use it?”

He raised his eyes toward the ceiling, as if pleading with a higher power for patience. “Do you have any clue what he’s capable of? Do you really want to risk your life?”

“Of course I know what he’s capable of!” I sprang up from the couch. “I’ve 
seen
 what he does to them. He sodomized Six.” Hysteria was taking over, and I could do nothing to stop it. “I don’t want to dream anymore. I need it to stop. Make it stop.”

Aidan’s embrace swallowed me. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into in my hair.

I wound my arms around his neck and buried my face in the curve of his shoulder. “No, I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I haven’t been sleeping much. We need to catch him.”

“I know. But using you as bait? Absolutely not. We’ll find another way.”