Carved in Darkness (28 page)

Nickels breathed out a quiet sigh. “I know. But I also know there’s more to that guy you had me look into than you said.”

Michael …
he was talking about Michael. She looked up to find him watching her. She turned her back on him, shamed by what she was about to say, not wanting him to hear her say it. “I need help.” The words burned her throat.

Nickels sighed again, this one sounded relieved. “I’ll round up the team. We can be there in—”

“No. No team. Just you.”

Another long pause. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

The doorbell rang forty-five minutes later. Sabrina opened the front door to find Nickels standing on her front porch.

“You’ve got a fan club,” he said, tossing a look over his shoulder. She stepped out on to the porch and looked. The unmarked sitting across the street from her house hadn’t moved. She gave a brisk wave and smiled in its direction. She looked at Nickels.

“I know—Pierce and Lawrence. I already took them some coffee and gave them my itinerary for the evening.” He laughed as intended but it bled into an awkward silence. She moved aside, letting him in before shutting the door.

“Strickland caught me before I left. He asked me to bring this to you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flashdrive. She took it, knew what it was without having to ask. It was a copy of the Kaitlyn Sawyer file. He must’ve downloaded it before being taken off the case. This alone could get him fired. She looked up at Nickels, and he shrugged. “Yeah, I looked at it—pretty gruesome shit. You want to tell me what it has to do with you?”

Telling Nickels the truth was the last thing she wanted to do, but she was out of options. She’d need his help to see this thing through, and she’d have to trust him to get it. She took him outside, onto the back deck, away from Michael. Somehow, keeping the two of them separate seemed like a good idea.

“This is you?” Nickels looked at the picture she’d showed him. His eyes bounced back to her face, searching for similarities, some kind of continuity that connected her to the girl in the picture. He was looking for an identifiable marker—something that would make her insane story believable. He could look for the rest of his life; he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for in her face.

While the plastic surgeon hadn’t done exactly what she’d asked, he’d made sure there was no trace of Melissa Walker left on her face.

She took the photo out of his hand and slipped it into her back pocket before lifting his hand to her cheek, guiding his fingertips over her face, letting him feel the screws and plates beneath the muscles and skin. After that he seemed ready to believe anything.

She started at the beginning and took him through it all. He stared at her while she talked. He obviously wanted to ask her things but didn’t know where to begin. He glanced over his shoulder, through the open door at Michael.

“Where does he fit into all this?” Nickels said, looking back at her.

“The man who took me killed his sister last year. He came here to ask for my help in catching him.” It was the condensed version, but Nickels was a cop—he knew what it meant.

“Bait.” He sounded angry.

“It’s my choice, Nick,” she said quietly. She looked over her shoulder. Michael was staring at his laptop, poring over the flashdrive she’d given him.

Nickels stood and faced the yard, leaning against the porch railing. The set of his shoulders told her more than enough about his state of mind.

She sighed, reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “Look, Nick—you don’t have to worry, I can take care—”

He turned on her. “If you finish that sentence, I’m gonna pick up that fucking chair and throw it through a window.” His voice was raised. She looked at Michael again. He was still sitting in the living room, only now he was blatantly staring at them through the open door of the deck, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was listening to their conversation.

Nickels followed her line of vision, settling his gaze on Michael. By the set of his shoulders, the tight clench of his jaw, and the way the two of them were staring holes into each other, she could see things were seconds away from getting ugly.

“Hey, want a beer?” she said to Nickels, trying to distract him.

He looked at her. “Sure.”

“Stay out here—away from him, okay?” she said , backing away from him toward the door that led to the kitchen.

Nickels nodded, but she wasn’t convinced.

FIFTY

T
HE COP WOULDN’T STOP
staring. Michael kept working, comparing the file Strickland had copied for Sabrina on the Sawyer girl against the file he already had on the rest of the victims.

The cop was still staring. He tried to ignore it but failed miserably. “Can I help you with something?” he said without looking up. He could feel the cop’s eyes drilling into the top of his head.

“No.” Nickels moved through the doorway and into the living room.

“Where’d she go?” Again he didn’t look up. Leaving the two of them alone was a bad idea.

“To get me a beer.” Nickels leaned against the chair across from him. He’d have to be deaf to miss the possessive tone the cop threw at him.

He just laughed …
Yeah, this is really bad idea
.

“Sabrina told me you served in the Army,” Nickels said.

He gave up, closed his laptop, and sat back in his chair. “That’s right.”

Nickels looked down at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Where?”

He smiled. “What? Your buddy at Fort Meade couldn’t hook you up with the 411?” It had taken Lark all of ten seconds to find the name, rank, and serial number of the enlisted that Nickels used to run a trace on him; it had taken less than thirty more to make it clear that doing so was unwise. His smile widened at the wary look Nickels gave him. “Friends are wonderful things, aren’t they?”

Nickels recovered quickly, cocked his head to the side, and smirked. “I’d never consider dragging a
friend
into a situation that could get her killed.”

Michael stood, jammed his hands into his front pockets and shook his head. “She’s not my friend. And, let’s be honest—she’s not your friend either. You want to fuck her. There’s a difference.”

Nickels dropped his arms and took a step forward. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, welcoming the advance. Sabrina came out of nowhere, beer in one hand, glass of wine in the other. She stepped between them, facing Nickels.

“Come on,” she said to Nickels, nudging him backward. She threw an exasperated look at him over her shoulder. Michael shrugged
,
curbed the urge to say
he started it.
She herded Nickels all the way to the doorway before he said anything.

“First SFOD-D.”

Nickels shot him a look over Sabrina’s shoulder as she pushed him out onto the deck. He didn’t ask him to repeat what he’d said. Nickels had heard and understood him just fine.

“I told you to wait out here,” Sabrina said, shoving a beer bottle into his hand. Nickels just glared at her for a second before he tipped it back, taking a long drink.

“Do you have any idea who—
what—
that guy is?” Nickels looked over his shoulder, into the living room where Michael still stood, watching him.

She shut the door on Michael and shrugged. “No. And I’m not interested in finding out.”

“First SFOD-D. First Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta.” He set the beer down, braced his hands on the porch railing. “These guys are scary, Sabrina. Mission-driven all the way.” He leaned forward. “If your safety, your
survival,
isn’t the mission, he’ll sacrifice you in an instant to obtain his objective.” He looked at her. “I don’t want you going anywhere with him.”

She stood next to him, elbows resting on the railing, staring into the glass of wine in her hand. “My eyes are wide open, Nick. I have no disillusions—he’s made no promises.” She looked up at him “I’m going. I have to.”

He looked at her. “Then I’m going with you.”

“No. I need you to stay here. Look after Val and the kids.”

He shook his head. “No way. Get Strickland to—”

“
No.
” She looked him in the eye. “He’s not going to lose his career over me, and you’re not risking your life.” She shook her head. “He killed Sanford. He must’ve been there when we got into in the lobby. If he can do
that
to someone who hates me, imagine what he could do to someone who—” She looked away.

He ducked his head and caught her eye. “What? Someone who what? Loves you?”

“Don’t say that.”

He smiled, looked around. “I can say it out loud. There’s no one here.”

She straightened, kept looking away. “You don’t love me, Nick.”

He reached for her hand, pulled her closer. “I don’t know, maybe I do.”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t. You can’t.”
I can’t.
She tried to make herself pull her hand from his but couldn’t. “I’m not … normal.”

“
It’s not you, it’s me
, is that it?” he said.

“Yes. That’s it exactly.”

“What about him?” He tipped his chin toward the house. “Seems like
abnormal
is right up his alley.”

She sighed, this time succeeding in pulling her hand away. “It’s not like that.”

He laughed out loud, caught her hand again. “Bullshit.”

She thought of her offer to share her bed. Michael’s quick decline. “He has no interest in me, and the feeling is mutual.” She was lying. The look Nick gave her said he knew it.

He let it go. “I have something for you.” He reached under his shirt, pulling something off his waistband. He handed it to her. It was her badge.

She stared at it for a second before looking up at him. “Where did you—”

He grinned. “You know Richards never locks his office or his desk.”

She looked down at her badge. It had only been a few hours, but she realized she’d missed the weight and feel of it. She wanted to keep it. Knew she couldn’t.

“You could get fired for this.”
Hell, girl, let’s get serious—he could go to prison for it.
She tried to shove it into his hand, but he refused to take it. “You have to take it back. If Richards finds out or, God forbid, Mathews … you have to take it back.”

“You need it. How else are you going to get in with the local PD?” he said. She stopped pushing and looked at her badge. He was right. If she wanted access to case files and the investigation into Lucy’s disappearance, she’d need to flash her badge to get it.

“They’ll call to verify I’m on a case.” She was thinking it through, trying to gauge exactly how much shit would bury her if she got caught in that big a lie.

“Not if the police chief is your guy. He’ll know who you are—want you there. He won’t check.”

She saw the message, carved into that girl’s back.

Olly Olly Oxen Free.

She nodded. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” He moved closer, looked down at her. “Which scares the shit out of me. Please, Sabrina, let me come with you.”

She shook her head. “I need you here. I
need
to know my family is safe. But I’ll take the badge, and I’ll call every day.” She looked up at him.

He grimaced, shook his head. “Okay, I’ll stay. Just … stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m never gonna see you again.”

It was a distinct possibility, one they needed to talk about. “If I don’t come back, I need to know that you’ll look after them. Protect them. He’ll come after Riley next. They’ll have to run—”

He shook his head. “No. We’re not doing that.” His mouth was a thin, hard line, his whiskey-colored eyes narrowed on her face.

“Doing what?”

“Making auxiliary plans. You’re coming home.” He leaned in, lowered his mouth to hers, and she was curious enough, selfish enough, to let him.

The kiss was soft—his lips parted slightly, his eyes closed. She closed her own, tried to let herself go, to give in … but she couldn’t. In the end, she did what she always did.

She held herself back.

FIFTY
-
ONE

A
FEW HOURS LATER,
the back door banged open, letting in the sounds of raucous teenager. Backpacks were dropped and shoes were kicked off amid a shouting match carried on in playful tones. Neither Jason nor Riley seemed aware that there were a quartet of adults gathered around the kitchen table, talking quietly.

Sabrina watched them for a moment. Couldn’t help but think of where she’d been just a few hours earlier. The crippling loss she’d felt when she’d believed that it was Riley behind that curtain. That it had been Riley who’d been tortured and raped. That she was dead.