Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (16 page)

FORTY-ONE

Halfway home, Sabrina caught
sight of Croft’s dark green Jetta. He must have picked up her tail after she’d left the Tenderloin. He’d been doing it for months, popping up wherever she was. The fact that it was edging toward midnight and that she was covered in blood meant nothing to him. She knew from experience that Croft wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted.

She parked across the street again. Almost every light in the house was on; she could see shadows moving behind drawn curtains. Val was awake, and she wasn’t alone. Nickels’s truck was still in the driveway.

She waited for the splash of headlights across the side mirror of her car before she got out. He was parked one house down, his dark silhouette outlined perfectly by the streetlight behind his car. The silhouette shifted in its seat and the car door popped open. Croft stepped onto the sidewalk, facing her, and waited.

She crossed the street, walking toward him at a fast clip that had him shifting from foot to foot as he watched her approach. “You’ve developed quite a talent for finding dead women,” he said to her, telling her just how long he’d been following her.

“And you’ve developed a talent for stalking me.” She glared at him. “You’re beginning to piss me off, Croft—I mean
really
piss me off.”

He pointed a finger at his bruised face, still swollen from where her fist connected with it repeatedly. “I got the memo.”

She laughed at him, leaning in to nail him with an icy look that had him taking a half step back before he could stop himself. “If you’ve been following me all night then you know I don’t have time or patience to play reporter right now. I’m tired. I’m covered in blood and probably have hepatitis, so—”

“Is that woman connected to what happened to the Edwards girl?” Croft said. “She is, isn’t she? Did he leave another note?”

She pushed her hand into her pocket, closing it over the stiff square of paper inside it. Involving Croft any further was more than just a mistake—it was dangerous.

But he was all she had. Strickland wouldn’t answer her calls, and she’d been pushed out of Homicide by Mathews. Before she could talk herself out of it, Sabrina pulled it from her pocket and held it out. “Here, make yourself useful.”

He recognized it for what it was almost immediately, hesitating for a moment before taking it from her outstretched hand. Pulling the note from its sleeve, he flipped it open. Something fluttered out. A rose petal, this one a deep, coral-orange. She watched it land on the hood of Croft’s car before she covered it with her hand. Her heart began to hammer and heave inside her chest like a battering ram. Like something inside was trying to fight its way out.

He read the message. His eyes popped off the page for a second, connecting with hers in a look of alarm before he glanced away. “Roughly translated, it says:
with each gift, I am becoming. Soon, we will have our eternity
. Below, it says
Urania is waiting.
” Croft handed the card back to her before shoving his hands into the pocket of his coat. “Urania is another muse. Inventor of astrology and protector of the stars.”

Urania is waiting.

The killer had just given her the name of his next victim.

FORTY-TWO

Sabrina stared at the
card in her hand, her mind quickly processing what he’d said. Astrology. Whoever his next victim was, she’d have something to do with astrology.

Urania is waiting.
The killer’s words were deliberate. He wanted her to know he hadn’t taken her yet. There was still time. The problem was, she had no idea how much.

She looked up to find Croft watching her. She quickly folded the card, tucking it back in its sleeve. “Thanks,” she said, taking a step back, she turned toward home. Lost in thought, she ran a list of possible leads in her head. She’d check colleges, observatories—he wouldn’t have given her a clue to his next victim if he hadn’t wanted her to find her.

“We’re not finished.”

Something in Croft’s tone had her turning to look at him. “Excuse me?”

“I said we’re not finished.” Croft took a step forward, closing the gap between them. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest, aiming his gaze over her shoulder. Whatever he was about to say, he wasn’t able to look her in the eye while he said it.

She shot him a smile completely void of humor. “Look, this tough guy routine of yours is super cute, Croft, but frankly, it needs a little work. Maybe—”

“Your partner’s devoted to you.” His expression was no longer neutral; it was as hard as stone. “So devoted that he’s willing to help you conceal evidence in a murder case involving the daughter of one of San Francisco’s most influential families.”

She’d misjudged him completely. Strickland had tried to warn her that Croft was unpredictable and she’d brushed it off, convinced that he’d never bite the hand that had agreed to feed him. Not only was he biting it, he was taking it off at the wrist.

“Careful … leveling threats at me is one thing—leveling them at my partner is quite another,” she said in a low tone that rumbled in her chest.

“I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

She felt the rumbling in her chest spread as she took a step toward him, and another, her hands tightening into fists, crumpling the envelope she held.

“There’s a wireless camera on my dash and it’s recording,” he said quickly, holding his hands out to stop her. “The footage feeds directly to my cloud account. There’s no audio, but I’m sure the attorney assigned to prosecute you for my assault won’t mind.”

She stopped, letting her gaze drift casually across the front of his car. Behind the windshield she could see a blinking red light and a camera lens, pointed directly at them. She shoved the envelope back into her pocket. “What do you want?” she said.

“The same thing I wanted six hours ago. I want Michael O’Shea.”

“I’ve got more important things to worry about than your jumbo-sized man-crush on some guy I barely knew when I was a kid,” she said, but she understood. His following her home had been all about this confrontation. Helping her had just been a calculated maneuver to garner more evidence to use against her.

“He’s more than just some guy you knew as a kid and we both know it.” A look of genuine regret passed over his face, but it was fleeting, chased away by grim determination. She’d called the bluff on his threat to file police brutality charges against her and he was answering back … and this time he wasn’t bluffing.

“Look, I’m sorry—I really am, but this is important,” Croft said, finally looking her in the eye. “Michael O’Shea isn’t worth protecting and he sure as hell isn’t someone you want to get mixed up in a relationship with.”

She thought about the last eight months spent alone and for once was able to answer honestly. “There is no
relationship
between Michael O’Shea and me.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d say that,” Croft said, completely unconvinced. “Think very carefully about what you’re doing. Christopher Strickland is helping you conceal evidence as well as your personal involvement in this case.” He reached out to pull open his car door. “You may not give a shit about your own career, but what about his? And don’t even get me started on the legal complications that could arise from such allegations.” He settled in behind the wheel, leaning his head to the side so he could see her. “I’ll give you thirty-six hours to make your choice—O’Shea’s story, or your partner’s career.”

FORTY-THREE

Nina Simone sang softly
from the dimly lit living room, but aside from her mournful voice, begging not to be misunderstood, the space looked empty. Two wine glasses sat on the table in front of the couch, one of them drained—the other still half full. Nickels was stretched out on the couch on his back, arms crossed over his chest like he’d fallen asleep angry. Val had probably gotten tired of waiting for her and gone to bed. Typical of her to leave the stereo on. She was worse than the kids when it came to stuff like that.

Sabrina gave the deadbolt a twist and flipped the security latch into place before moving around the room, checking each window to make sure they were locked. She was halfway across the room to check the French doors leading to the back deck before she realized what she was doing. It’d been months since she’d done this—gone from room to room to check window and door locks. Not since she’d killed Wade and gotten her life back.

Your stopping had nothin’ to do with getting your life back. You just finally realized that there ain’t no lock that’ll keep me out. Not anymore …

Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingertips to her lids for a moment. She needed food and a good night’s sleep. The clock was ticking—Croft had given her thirty-six hours to decide, but her choice had been made the second he’d issued his threat. She would go to Mathews and confess everything, removing Strickland from the equation all together. Mathews would know it was a bunch of bullshit, but he’d play along, especially if it meant having the pleasure of not only firing her but arresting her for hindering an investigation and withholding evidence.

She’d go upstairs and get her things. Go back to Miss Ettie’s and try to catch a few hours’ sleep. In light of her decision, her seven a.m. qualify for SWAT would prove to be a waste of time, but she had to be there. She still had those thirty-six hours, and she planned to use every last one of them to gather the evidence she needed to stop the man who was stalking her from killing another girl.

Pushing through the door with her shoulder, she stopped short, her gut going origami on her, folding itself into some strange, intricate shape that had her sagging against the doorframe. Val was at the kitchen table, waiting for her, a large spray of red roses in a vase on the counter behind her.

“Where did those come from?” she said, doing everything to push the panic out of her voice.

Val’s dark brown eyes went wide, and for a moment Sabrina saw herself through them: worn-down and half-crazy, hands stained with blood. Val looked away as if she didn’t like what she saw. Sabrina couldn’t blame her.

“Liam was here. He brought them … said the two of you had a dinner date,” Val said, recovering quickly. Her face hardened, as if the roses had reminded her of something. “We need to talk, and this time neither one of us gets to walk away until things are settled.”

Liam was here …
Sabrina tore her gaze away from the flowers on the counter and looked at her friend. Her escape plan suddenly vanished, her stomach taking another twist. Next to Val’s chair sat her duffle and laptop case.

“Looks to me like it’s already settled,” she said, jerking her chin in their direction.

“That’s up to you.”

She sighed. “I don’t know what you want from me, Val. I’m trying. I’m doing the best I can … and to be honest, I’m sick to fucking death of apologizing for being me.”

“That’s the thing—you aren’t doing your
best
. You’ve given up completely. At least before—” Val stopped short, realizing what she was about to say.

“Before what? Before I found out the man who raped and tortured me was my own brother? Before I killed him? Before he goddamned
crippled me
?” She raised her voice, pushing her fist into her thigh, letting the pain that shot through her leg feed her anger.

Val’s face went pale beneath her dusky gold complexion. Sabrina could see her resolve waver for a moment, but she grabbed onto it and held firm. “I can’t let you keep doing this. To me. To the kids. To
him.
” Val nodded her head toward the wall and who was on the other side of it. She was talking about Nickels.

“Him? Don’t forget you’re the one who called
him
,” Sabrina said, finally letting it go—the anger and frustration, the fear and worry, shoving it all at her friend with a short bark of laughter. “You’re the one who involved Nickels, not me.”

“He loves you.” Val placed her palms flat on the table and stood, leaning over to glare at her. “I don’t know what’s going on with Liam, but Devon
loves
you … you can’t keep doing this to him. He deserves better.”

“Liam is just a friend,” she said, even though she knew it was a lie. He wanted more from her. Always had. “And Nickels too. We’re just friends—”

“Michael is gone, and he isn’t coming back,” Val said, cutting her off. “Devon is here. So is Liam. You have a chance to be happy, to have something normal. Don’t keep pushing them away.” The words got stuck in Val’s throat, like she was having trouble saying them. Like they were choking her. “Just … choose one.”

Suddenly, she could see it. How had she missed it … all these months and now here it was, as plain as day. Why Val turned to him when she needed someone to lean on. Why she seemed to be relentlessly pushing the two of them together.

The anger that had only seconds before gripped her tight suddenly let go, leaving her feeling limp, squeezed dry. “Nickels doesn’t love me, he’s just too stubborn to admit it.” She passed a blood-stained hand over her face. “Why didn’t you tell me how you felt about him?”

Val reared back as if she’d been slapped. “
What
? No. That’s not what this is about. This is about us—you. I want you to be happy.”

She shook her head, jaw clenched. “This is about all the years you’ve
wasted
on me. Aren’t you tired yet, Val? Tired of sacrificing for me? Of waiting for me to be a better person, to be someone who doesn’t exist anymore?” Her twisted stomach suddenly unfurled, a pair of wings beating in time with the rapid pace of her heart, causing what felt like a loss of gravity. She was floating. Untethered. Lost.

She crossed the room, bent and picked up the duffle, shouldering it before she lifted her laptop case. Val watched her, the look on her face telling her that she hadn’t expected her to let go so easily. That she’d expected her to fight. That she’d been prepared to let her win.

“Be patient, he’ll come around.” Sabrina smiled. “Nickels cares about you, even I can see that. Just give him some time to realize how much.”

Val shook her head, shock and fear shone plainly on her face. “Sabrina, that’s not what I—”

“I know.” She smiled even though she felt as if she’d been cleaved in two. “But he’s your chance at happiness, not mine,” she said.

On impulse she leaned in, pressing her lips to Val’s cheek. Val squeezed her eyes shut, a constricted sob bobbing in her throat as the resolve she fought so hard to hold onto suddenly crumbled away. She reached out and latched onto her arm, pulling on the sleeve of her bloodstained coat. “Wait—”

Sabrina pushed a smile onto her face, forced herself to meet Val’s eyes. “No,” she said, covering Val’s hand with hers to pull it free. “You’re right. You can’t do this anymore—I don’t want you to. Tell the kids … tell them I love them and that I’m sorry.”

She moved. Didn’t stop until she was outside, the door pulled closed behind her. Standing on the stoop, back pressed against the door, she waited until she heard Val engage the lock before she left.

Looks like it’s just you and me, darlin’. Alone at last …