Epiphany (Legacy of Payne) (22 page)

* * *
 

I shot up in bed and immediately reached for Aidan, but his side was cold. We hadn’t spoken since returning from the sheriff’s station. Vocal communication wasn’t required. As soon as we’d entered the dark hall, he’d taken my hand and led me to bed, where we’d clung to each other until sleep claimed us.

Now I squinted in the darkness, listening for any sounds that might indicate where he’d gone. Gooseflesh pebbled on my arms, and I gulped at the absolute quiet that penetrated the room. Where was he?

“I’m over here.” His voice floated from the other side of the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I asked, rubbing the chill from my skin.

“Does it matter?” A sloshing sound followed.

My eyes adjusted, and I was able to make out the outline of his body. I heard it again—like liquid swishing against glass. Was he drinking? Noiselessly, I slid out of bed and crossed the room. The bottom of my favorite sleep shirt—the one I’d stolen from him—tickled my thighs. He sat on the floor with his forearms resting on his knees. I zeroed in on the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hands.

“How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough. Sun should be up soon.” He lifted the half-empty bottle to his lips.

I lowered to my knees. “You don’t need this,” I said, coaxing the bottle from his vise-like grip.

“I need you.” He thumped his head against the wall, as if frustrated with himself for needing anyone.

“I’m right here.” I set the bottle aside and scooted between his legs.

“Nuh-uh. I don’t wanna need you.”

“Tough shit. You’re stuck with me.”

“Deb was pregnant.” His glassy eyes pierced through me. “We tried for two years. Thought it wasn’t gonna happen . . . then it happened.” A smile ghosted at the corners of his mouth, faint like the memory of happiness.

Disarmed by his vulnerability, I leaned forward and wound my arms around him, holding him as tight as I could, but it would never be enough.

“It could’ve been you tonight.” He shuddered and burrowed his face in the hollow of my shoulder, and his breath dampened my skin. “He’s getting more brutal, and I’m scared. I’m really scared I’m gonna lose you.”

I wanted to tell him everything would be okay, but the platitude somehow seemed like a slap in the face after what we’d been through together. All I could do was hold on to him. “Dee is alive because of you,” I said.

“No, she’s alive because of you. God, you’re amazing. I dragged you into this mess, and you’re sitting here comforting me.” He laughed, a dry and bitter testament of his grief. “I wish the ‘Hangman’ was a fucking word game to you. I’d turn back time if I could. Make sure you never met me.”

“Are you 
trying
 to rip my heart out?”

He pulled back and held my face in his hands. “I’m an ass. A drunk, stupid ass.” He brushed the tears from my cheeks with gentle patience. “I wish you’d never laid eyes on me, never came to Watcher’s Point. I love you enough to want that for you.”

My heart stumbled. “Don’t say those words unless you mean them.”

“I mean them.” His whiskey-flavored breath fanned across my face, evoking the memory of our first kiss. Like the scent of pine was reminiscent of Christmas, the smell of whiskey would always remind me of him.

And it reminded me of how he shouldn’t be drinking at all.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Alcohol isn’t—”

He fastened his mouth over mine in a kiss infused with desperation. Fire ignited in my belly, spreading lower until it burned between my thighs. I crawled onto his lap and straddled him.

“You make me crazy,” he said.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Bad”—he removed my T-shirt in one fluid motion—“good. All of the above.” His hands warmed my breasts, thumbs whisking across sensitive peaks, and my breath came quicker, escaping in small bursts. I rose on my knees, reached down, and freed him from his boxers. “Definitely good,” he moaned.

Arching my spine, I flung my head back and purred as his mouth left a wet trail down my throat. My pulse throbbed under the heat of his tongue, and I held on tighter as his kiss speared through me like lightning.

He hooked a finger along the edge of my panties, sweeping them aside, and pushed into me with a groan. His fingers curled around my hips, drawing me closer and guiding the rhythm as we started our dance. I was drowning, completely possessed as he strengthened his hold on my heart.

“Aidan . . .” I buried my face in his hair, inhaling as I dug my fingers into his dampened skin.

“Aidan!”

Anything I might’ve said after that became inaudible cries. He thrust to the hilt, his ragged breathing drowning out the beat of my heart, and I cried out again as he swept me up in the tide of intoxication that had nothing to do with whiskey and everything to do with the man.

A search of Aidan’s kitchen produced three bottles of whiskey. I upended the last one into the sink and stared as it splashed down the drain. I was so entranced by the swirling amber that I failed to hear him enter. He wrapped his arms around me from behind.

“I missed you in bed.”

I nibbled on my lip. “I couldn’t sleep.” That wasn’t entirely true. I’d fallen asleep after we’d made love, but then a dream had awakened me, and I’d tossed and turned next to him for an hour. “Are you mad?” I asked, holding onto his arms. Not that it would change anything—I still would have poured the alcohol down the drain.

“No.” He held me tighter, almost crushing me in his embrace. “I’m still a little drunk, probably headed for a wicked hangover, but all I want is to sleep with you by my side.” He exhaled against my neck. “Safe by my side.” His lips traced a path to my ear. “Thanks for dumping it, but you can come back to bed now.”

I turned in his arms, and every memory from the night before assaulted me. The good and the bad. “Promise me you won’t drink anymore.”

“I promise.” He kissed along my jaw, feathery teases until his mouth captured mine. I sighed, loving the simple act of kissing him too much. Loving
him
too much.

“You’re too agreeable,” I moaned against his lips. “I’m serious. Please . . . promise me and mean it. Don’t drink anymore.”

“I’ll try.” He kissed me again, and when we finally broke apart, he gave me a perplexed look. “Do I smell food?” His eyes veered toward the stove.

I hid a smile. “I figured it was my turn. It’s nothing complicated, just eggs and toast.” I ran my fingers down his chest toward the waistband of his sweats, enjoying how his stomach muscles tightened under my touch. “I couldn’t remember where you kept your plates.”

“Well, if you’re cooking, I can’t go back to bed now. Have a seat. I’ll dish up.”

I sat at the center island and thumbed through my sketchbook.

“Drawing again?” he asked.

“I had another dream about the cabin.”

“Anything new?”

“No, but I can see it more clearly now. I don’t know what it means, or even if it’s important.” I drew a few lines and smudged the charcoal with my thumb. “Maybe it doesn’t exist.”

He pulled down two plates from the cupboard next to where I’d found his stash of Jack. “It exists.”

He didn’t need to explain his certainty—I knew what he was getting at. I’d dreamed of this strange cabin for the last couple of weeks, and the dreams had only intensified. If I was dreaming about it, then it was out there somewhere, foundation and wood, surrounded by trees and water.

Oregon had a lot of lakes.

Growing restless, I slid from the stool. “I’m gonna grab the paper.” I wondered what the media had to say about Dee’s attempted murder. I’d called the sheriff earlier that morning and learned that she was in a coma. Would she come out of it and name her kidnapper?

The sky was its usual dreary gray when I pulled the door open. Nothing seemed out of place except for the Bible that accompanied the newspaper on his porch. It wasn’t your everyday standard Bible. Not like the ones the Gideons distributed. This particular tome had been handled frequently, the brown leather cover worn and the gold-tipped pages faded to dull brass.

What really caught my attention was the bookmark placed between the pages. I reached for the book and opened it to the marked spot. As I skimmed the text, noting the highlighted bits, my instincts screamed that something was off. The story, a timeless tale of ultimate betrayal, was a familiar one; the story of Cain and Abel. Good brother killed by bad brother. Bad brother banished for his crime.

How odd. Didn’t church people usually leave pamphlets or knock on the door? They didn’t leave Bibles with bookmarks in them. A chill traveled down my arms and legs as my fingers brushed over the worn leather. I bent down and picked up the paper before returning to the kitchen. “Someone left a Bible on your porch.”

He dropped the spoon, paying no attention to the eggs that covered the counter. “Let me see.” He set the newspaper aside and flipped through the Bible, and his expression tensed. “We need to tell the sheriff about this.”

I gulped. “You think the killer left it?”

“I don’t think, I
know
. He left a Bible once before, right after Deb was killed.” His brows narrowed. “Though this one has obviously been handled a lot.”

I shivered at the thought that the Hangman had been on the other side of the door, just a few feet from me while Aidan slept downstairs. “Was it bookmarked too?”

“Yeah, the same story of Cain and Abel.”

“What about the other victims in Boise? Did he leave a Bible in those cases too?”

Aidan’s expression was grim. “No.”

His answer only reinforced my earlier theory—that a copycat was responsible for his wife’s murder as well as the murders in Watcher’s Point.

“What do you think it means?” I asked, shaking my head. “I mean . . . what would the story of Cain and Abel have to do with you, with these murders? Is he a religious nut or something?” I began pacing, as if I could simply walk away the feeling of being stalked. I turned and bumped into Aidan. “He was right on the other side of that door. He could’ve . . . could’ve . . .”

“He didn’t.” He folded his arms around me, and we both held on. “He didn’t. I won’t let him hurt you.”

I wanted to melt into him, hide from the world and all the turmoil in it. The threat of the Hangman, the impending visit with my mom . . .

“He won’t get anywhere near you, Mackenzie.”

* * *
 

The days leading up to Thanksgiving passed in a state of madness. The Feds sent agent Victoria Kipp to town shortly after Aidan and I found the Bible on his doorstep. She’d subjected us both to a long line of questioning. Aidan especially, since he’d been seen talking to Chloe Sanders the day before she was murdered.

Of course, a chaotic week wouldn’t be complete without several calls from Joe. He’d called every day, but so far I’d been too chickenshit to answer. Mom had also called, freaking out as only a mother could when reports of Dee’s kidnapping and attempted murder hit the news. Third victim in three weeks, and the media was having a field day with speculation.

“Pumpkin is done.” Aidan set the pie on the counter to cool. “I’m gonna make another one. What do you think? Chocolate or banana?”

He’d been up since the crack of dawn acting utterly domestic and pretending to need my help with baking pies—from scratch, of course—because going to my mother’s house empty handed on Thanksgiving would be a travesty.

“Doesn’t matter. Either is fine.”

We’d spent endless days running errands and doing simple things like laundry . . . not to mention the slow shifts we shared at work—shifts he found ways to fill with busy work, despite a lack of customers.

Anything to keep me so preoccupied that I wouldn’t dwell on seeing my mom again. The day loomed in front of me like an emotional root canal. I wasn’t looking forward to facing the past, but not going meant Aidan would continue this absurd state of normalcy. As if anything was normal. Dee had come out of her coma, but she didn’t remember a thing about the night the Hangman had taken her. Somewhere in her subconscious lay the answer to the killer’s identity, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted her to remember or not. Who’d want to live with that kind of horrific experience coloring their every step?

“I changed my mind.”

“About what?” He grabbed a saucepan and began pouring sugar and cocoa into it.

“About going.” I wandered to the counter and peeked at the cooling pumpkin pie before ambling to Aidan’s side again. “I don’t want to deal with my mom right now.”

“It’ll be good to get away.” He added a can of evaporated milk to the mix, and the sight of him doing something as simple as making a pie ebbed at my irritation.

“Do you have any idea how sexy you are when you do that?”

He arched a dark brow. “Are you trying to distract me?”

I laughed. “The only distraction in this kitchen is you.” I eyed the stovetop and caught a whiff of what he was cooking. “And maybe the smell of that.”

He grinned as he cracked open an egg. “No more distractions. So why the one-eighty?”

Shit. His ability to exude nonchalance before striking at the heart of the matter was annoying. “I’ve barely talked to my mom since I moved here.” I tapped my fingernails on the granite countertop. “I never told her what Joe’s dad did. I guess in the back of my mind, I’m worried she won’t believe me.”

Though Aidan didn’t say anything at first, I didn’t miss the tick in his jaw. If he ever came face to face with my rapist, I knew he’d lose it and probably take another trip to jail while he was at it. I wondered how many “get out of jail free” cards he had left.

“Of course she’ll believe you. She’s your mother.” He lifted the spoon and blew on the filling before bringing it to my lips. “Try this.”

I rolled my eyes but complied. Damn, he was good.

“You’re not gonna let two perfectly good pies go to waste, are you?” he asked, all innocence.

I was an idiot to think he’d let me get away with changing my mind. “No, that would be criminal.”

“Good.” He set the spoon down and pulled me against him. One hand cradled the back of my head as he brought his mouth down on mine in a lingering union that ignited a fire in my veins.