Twisted Page 4

  She couldn’t dismiss it now.

  There was a faint rustle of sound behind her. Such a soft sound. One that could have been made by the wind, by the storm.

  Or by someone else.

  Emma’s right hand slid into her pocket even as she kept shining the light with her left hand. If someone else was there, she’d already given away her position with that light.

  But maybe, maybe that someone else was the missing girl. “Julia?” Emma’s fingers curled around the weapon in her pocket.

  No answer, but she could feel someone back there. Could almost hear the breaths of the person closing in on her.

  Emma waited, her whole body tense.

  The soft rustle came again. Emma yanked out her weapon, spinning around and shining her light into the darkness.

  The light hit his face at the same instant that her knife came up, aiming for his chest—

  But Dean caught her hand in a steely grip, a grip that quickly had her fingers going numb.

  “After what you’ve been through,” Dean rasped, “I would have thought the last weapon you’d use would be a knife.”

  He was so wrong. It was precisely because of her past that she always carried a knife. “I believe in facing what I fear.” Not cowering in a corner. What? He thought because she’d barely survived an attack from a knife-wielding psycho that she would never touch a blade again?

  So what if she’d vomited the first five times she’d tried to pick up a knife. She had picked it up.

  He eased his grip, and feeling came back to her fingers in fast, hot pinpricks. But she didn’t gasp at the pain. Emma was too accustomed to pain.

  Her light spilled onto his face, but with all of the shadows around him, Dean looked even more dangerous than usual. Predatory.

  “You followed me,” she accused.

  “Guilty.”

  It was nice that he didn’t deny it. She rather hated lies even if she’d learned—early in life—to tell them very well.

  “Why are you here?” He leaned even closer to her. “In the dark, calling out for Julia?”

  She could feel him all around her. Warmth seemed to flow from his body, flow into her. Emma found herself wanting to lean forward and touch him more. But, of course, that was ridiculous. Dean Bannon wasn’t her kind of lover. She didn’t want men who clung so tightly to their control. She liked her lovers wild. With a rough edge that couldn’t be denied.

  Dean was too controlled for her.

  Right, keep telling yourself that.

  “Emma.” His voice held the unmistakable note of a command. “Why are you here? In the middle of the fucking night?”

  “Why were you watching me,” she threw back at him, “in the middle of the fucking night?” After that kiss, she’d expected him to run, not walk, away from her. She’d messed up his perfect, controlled world, pushed him too far—and she’d loved it.

  But he’d backed away.

  And she’d thought they were done.

  But he followed me? Probably just because of the case. Of course, just because of the case. Why else would he trail her?

  “I was worried about you.”

  Now that confession made her feel strange. Her stomach twisted, and she tugged her hand, needing some space between them. No one had worried about her in years.

  Dean let her go.

  And Emma started talking. Too quickly, yes, but she talked fast when she was nervous, and Dean had certainly managed to unsettle her. “When businesses like this one shut down, the homeless will move in.” There were so many homeless people in the Big Easy. All ages, all races. Too many who made their lives on the streets.

  Just like I did, once.

  She slammed the door shut on that memory. “Julia was living on the streets. She was running that night, and I-I think she was trying to get back here.” To the dark, cavernous space that she had called home?

  “You didn’t tell me that she was living here.”

  No, she hadn’t. “I wasn’t sure that she was. I just—”

  “Knew psychically?”

  She wanted to punch him. “I pay attention to what’s around me. I never claimed to be psychic,” Emma gritted out. Asshole. “I offer readings—I read people. I see what others don’t, okay? I pay fucking attention.”

  Because that was what she’d been trained to do. Her father, yes, he’d claimed to be psychic, but the truth was that he’d just been good at reading people, too. Reading them, playing them. A con man to his core, he’d been able to ferret out people’s secrets in an instant.

  Mostly, he’d used his talents to earn some fast bucks.

  But, sometimes, he’d tried to help people.

  And look where that got him.

  Emma’s shoulders rolled back as she tried to push away the tension that was holding too tightly to her. “It was the message on my wall.”

  She still had her light shining right on him.

  “You’re next.”

  She shivered at his words. “Yes. I remembered seeing that message before.” She turned around, and her light hit the wall. Skimmed over most of the graffiti, then locked on the letters that had been spray-painted in red. You’re next. “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Emma said softly.

  “Neither do I.”

  SOMEONE WAS IN his house. The house he’d claimed after he’d taken sweet Julia.

  He could see the flash of the light from inside.

  That was wrong. No one should be there. No one.

  He slid around the back. His boot crunched on the broken glass, and he leaned forward, trying to listen carefully through that window.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.” A woman’s voice. A voice that was familiar to him.

  “Neither do I.” A man.

  His eyes narrowed as he listened to them.

  “If Julia was here,” the guy continued, “then there could be clues left behind. Something that tells us where she went—”

  “Or who took her,” the sweet, feminine voice finished.

  No, no, no! He backed away, rage twisting through him. They weren’t going to find anything. That was his house.

  A growl broke from him. No one should be in his house. No one.

  He bent and picked up a jagged chunk of glass that had fallen near the window.

  Then he smiled.

  It’s my time now. Mine.

  “WE NEED TO search this place,” Dean said as he pulled out his own light. He’d already planned to hit The Mask at dawn, but when he’d seen Emma slipping away from the crystal shop, he’d followed her.

  What the hell was I even doing there? Hanging outside that place? But he’d found himself lingering, strangely reluctant just to leave her in the shop. Time had slid past, and he’d found himself standing guard. Protecting her.

  His flashlight swept to the left. Then back toward the broken window he and Emma had used to gain entrance—

  Someone was there. In front of the window.

  He had a flash of the man, a tall guy, with a hat pulled low over his dirt-covered, grizzled face, and the guy screamed, “Get out of my house!”

  Dean grabbed Emma and shoved her behind him even as the man let out a loud, enraged bellow and charged toward them. “Easy, buddy,” Dean shouted. “You need to stop!”

  But the guy wasn’t stopping. He was running full speed ahead, and Dean’s light glinted off the chunk of glass in the man’s hand. Glass that was far sharper than Emma’s small switchblade.

  With a roar, the man lifted the glass.

  Shit. Dean ran for him. The guy’s hand was up, raised too high, so Dean went in straight for the guy’s gut. His shoulders plowed into the guy, and Dean’s tackle sent the attacker flying back toward the floor.

  The glass flew out of his hand, but the man didn’t stop. He was a big fellow, long, with thin limbs. His fists flew out and started pounding at Dean.

  Dean pounded back. He had a general rule about fights . . . when some bastard threw the first punch—or comes at me
with damn glass—he sure attacked back.

  Dean drove his fist into the guy’s stomach. He heard the groan of pain that escaped the fellow, and the man sagged beneath him.

  Dean’s hand stilled, poised over the guy.

  “Call the cops,” Dean ordered Emma. But he wasn’t done. Long before those cops arrived, Dean planned to have his answers.

  He jerked the now-moaning man to his feet even as he heard Emma calling for help on her phone.

  “Where is she?” Dean demanded as he shoved the guy against the nearest wall.

  “My house! You’re in my house!” The guy’s voice was a strangled cry.

  “Where is Julia?”

  “My house!” The guy tried to take another swing at him. He missed.

  “You have her in your house?” Adrenaline pumped through Dean’s body. “You bastard, if you’ve hurt her—”

  “Get out of my house!” the man screamed as he struggled in Dean’s grip.

  “Stop!” That voice was Emma’s. She touched Dean on the shoulder. “Seriously, stop.”

  Was the woman insane? That bozo had just attacked them with glass sharp enough to kill.

  “You’re scaring him,” Emma continued.

  The fuck he was.

  “He lives here, Dean.” Emma’s flashlight slid to the left. To the cardboard boxes, the assortment of men’s clothes that were spread out on the floor. “We’re in his house.”

  “My house!” the man screeched.

  “Was Julia in your house?” Dean demanded. “Did you go after her the same way you came at us? Did you hurt Julia?”

  The man started crying.

  Emma’s hand tightened on Dean’s shoulder. “The cops will be here in less than five minutes. If you want answers from him . . . then let me talk to the guy. Now.”

  Because she was going to get the guy to make sense when an ex–FBI agent couldn’t? “Listen, Emma—”

  “No, you listen,” she fired back, her voice flat and hard. “If you want to find Julia, let me talk to him. Because all you’ve done is terrify him. I can do more.”

  Dean’s back teeth ground together, but he moved away. Fine. If she wanted to have a stab at the guy, she could. But if that jerk made one move to hurt her, Dean would lay him out on the floor.

  “Get out,” the man muttered, his voice growling and desperate. “Out!”

  “We’ll leave,” Emma said softly. “We were just looking for our friend.”

  The man’s head was shaking frantically. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  “You live here,” Emma said.

  The frantic shaking eased.

  “We shouldn’t have come into your house.”

  “Mine.”

  “Did you . . . share this house with anyone?”

  “All mine!”

  “We thought a girl lived here. That’s why we came. A girl with blond hair and green eyes. She was young, a teenager.”

  The shaking stopped completely. “Left . . . with him.”

  Now Dean was the one who tensed. “With who?”

  The guy’s shaking started immediately. “My house!”

  “Dammit, Dean, you’re just setting him off!” Emma snapped. Then she sucked in a deep breath. “We’ll leave your home if you just answer our questions.”

  Silence.

  “Who took the girl? Did you see the person—”

  “Only the c-car. Big black car. Put her . . . put her in the trunk.”

  What. The. Fuck? “You saw a girl getting tossed into the trunk of a car, and you didn’t do a damn thing?” He wanted to punch the guy again.

  But Emma was standing in front of the man.

  Sirens screamed in the distance. The guy tensed.

  “Did you notice anything else about the car?” Emma asked, voice soft.

  “Big. Black.”

  Yeah, he’d already said that shit.

  “Where did the car go?”

  “Don’t know! Don’t know!”

  “What was the girl doing when you saw her?”

  “S-sleeping.”

  Dean’s spine stiffened. Sleeping . . . or had she been dead?

  He heard voices outside. Not the voices of the drunks celebrating on Bourbon Street but the cops who’d come in response to Emma’s call.

  “What’s your name?” Emma asked the man.

  But the cops were rushing inside then. They’d kicked in the door. Their lights hit Emma and Dean and their mystery man. The man cried out then. “My house!”

  Dean’s head turned, and he stared at the graffiti-covered wall.

  You’re next.

  He knew he wasn’t looking at a simple missing persons case anymore. Hell, were they ever simple? But this one . . . this one was darker. Far more sinister.

  And he realized the case could be much bigger than he’d originally thought. He would need to call in the whole team for this one.

  “Hands up!” the cops shouted. Jaw locking, Dean lifted his hands.

  DAWN HAD COME. The sun was peeking over the sky, lighting up the city as it slowly rose.

  They were in front of the police station. It was a spot that Emma, rather unfortunately, felt she was becoming far too familiar with.

  Dean was at her side, but he was silent. Big surprise there.

  Emma knew she should walk away from him. If she had a stronger sense of self-preservation, she’d be fleeing the whole city right then. She was smart enough to know what she’d been caught up in.

  But . . .

  Julia’s image flashed before her eyes. Aren’t you supposed to tell me that everything will be all right?

  Emma hadn’t given her that lie.

  Help me.

  Was it too late to help the girl?

  Emma glanced down at her palms and saw the scars that would always mark her. “Do you think she’s dead?”

  “I won’t believe she’s dead until I find the body.”

  It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who held out a lot of hope. Emma glanced up at him.

  “We don’t give up at LOST. The people out there—the ones we are looking for—someone has to believe they’re still alive.”

  “Do you always find them . . . alive?”

  He shook his head. Sadness flashed in his dark eyes.

  Her hand lifted. Light stubble coated that strong jaw of his. “You tried to play white knight.” She wouldn’t forget that. Sure, he’d followed her—not cool and a bit stalkerlike—but when danger had appeared, the guy had tried to shield her from the attack.

  Sweet, in one of those good-guy sort of ways.

  Not that she’d needed shielding. Not that she was particularly attracted to good guys.

  But I am attracted to him.

  “And you were playing detective.”

  His words had her brows lifting.

  “You went out last night to try to find her, didn’t you?”

  Time for her confession. “Ah, Dean, I’ve gone out every night for the last week because I wanted to find her.” But she hadn’t, and now Emma knew why. Someone had taken Julia. The same person who’d broken into Emma’s apartment and left her that dark threat.

  “People vanish in this city all the time. Did you know that? The river is so close . . .” She could smell the river right then. “Bodies can vanish there. People disappear into the darkness, and the world just goes on, as if nothing has happened.”

  When something had happened. Someone’s world had stopped.

  Emma made her decision. “I want to help you find her.” Her hand was still pressed against the stubble on his jaw. She liked the rough rasp beneath her touch.

  Just as she’d liked the feel of his mouth against her own.

  But Dean shook his head. “This isn’t work for you.”

  And he stepped back, obviously dismissing her.

  “My full team is flying down. We’ll find Julia.” He sounded so confident.

  “I want to help!” Emma insisted. It was the
first time she’d actually tried to help find someone since her father had died. She should have learned her lesson then, but . . . here she was. Trying again.

  He shook his head. “It’s dangerous for a civilian to get involved. You’re playing out of your league.”

  Like she hadn’t heard those words before. Actually, she’d heard those exact words before. Ten years ago. When she and her father had tried to do the right thing. The cops hadn’t believed them.

  “He’s coming after me.” She said this softly.

  Dean’s head jerked.

  “We don’t believe in coincidences, remember?” Emma gave a sad shake of her head. “You’re next. Those words were written in Julia’s home. They were written in mine. She’s gone, and me . . . well, I’m right here.” For now. “But he’s coming.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You saw what he did to my apartment.” That place had been full of rage. A killing fury. “You really want to stand there and tell me that I’m not in danger?”

  He didn’t speak. Good. Maybe he didn’t want to lie.

  “You were outside that shop last night because you were afraid he’d come after me, weren’t you?”

  No answer. Don’t take the silence too far, DB.

  “That’s what I thought,” she whispered. It wasn’t the first time a killer had put her in his sights. “He saw Julia talking with me that night.” That was the only thing she could figure out. “Maybe he thinks I saw him, too. Maybe you’re not the only one who has been watching me lately.” And she should have noticed someone lurking around, dammit. Were her skills getting rusty? Her father had trained her over the years to always pay attention to her environment. Always. But she’d started to slack off. Started to feel a little too safe in New Orleans . . . where most people didn’t glance at her twice.

  Where she’d thought she had disappeared in the crowd.

  She turned and started heading down the police station’s stone steps. She’d only gone a few feet when Dean’s hand wrapped around her arm. “What the hell do you want to do?” he demanded. “Offer yourself up as bait?”

  A shiver slid over her but, yes . . . “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  His eyes narrowed on her.