Midnight Disclosures. Rita Herron
he punched the doorbell. A second later, Claire appeared.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mark.”
When she swung the door open, she was still wearing a white linen nightshirt that caught in the morning breeze and fluttered around her thighs. Sunlight shone through the sheer fabric, giving him a glimpse of her sleek body, of golden skin, narrow hips, a flat stomach, then lower to the heat that had once sated his desires.
God help him, but he wanted to push up that gown and sink himself inside her now.
“Mark…I’m not dressed.”
“Obviously. Do you always answer the door like that?”
She jerked her head up, defensive. “No.”
He was just about to lecture her on the fact that a killer was stalking Savannah when he noticed she was shaking. Her face was pale, too. “What’s wrong?”
“I…I think someone was in my cottage.”
He gripped the doorjamb, instincts alert. “When?”
“Now,” she whispered, “or…maybe last night.”
He instinctively drew her against him, using his body as a shield between her and the inside of the cabin. “Are they still inside?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Fury iced his veins. Of course she didn’t. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”
“No, let me go with you.”
She clutched his arm, and for the first time since he’d seen her again, she held onto him. He hated that fear had brought them to this point. “All right, Claire, but stay behind me. And if I say run, you damn well better do it.”
She clung to the back of his shirt as he drew his weapon and moved inside, her body pressed against him. The living room was dark, as was the rest of the cottage. Claire didn’t need lights, a bitter reminder of her condition.
He scanned the kitchen, then moved to the bedroom, his throat working when he saw the tousled covers and imagined Claire stretched out on the pale yellow sheets. Had someone been inside, watching her sleep?
The room was empty, though. So was her tiny bathroom.
Finally, he lowered his gun and turned to her. She stumbled into him, then pushed away to regain her balance. “Why didn’t you call for help?”
“I was going to, but then you showed up.”
He paused, calming himself, reverting back to professional mode. “Why do you think someone was inside?”
She took a calming breath and squared her shoulders as if she realized she’d shown a weakness. “The chair in my bedroom was moved from the corner.”
He frowned.
“Someone had to have moved it,” she clarified as if she’d seen his expression. “It’s important that I keep everything in its place.”
He knew it cost her to admit that.
“And in my bathroom…” she said in a low voice. “My perfume, cosmetics, they were all moved around, left open on the counter.”
“Anything else?”
She nodded and hugged her arms around herself. “Some scarves were missing from my drawers.”
Mark gritted his teeth. The other women had been strangled with scarves. Had the intruder taken Claire’s as a memento or did he plan to use them to choke his next victim?
“And…” her voice broke. “I found a rose.”
Dammit. The killer had also left a crushed rose in each victim’s hand.
His stomach churned as he spotted the flower on Claire’s pillow. Was it some kind of calling card to let her know she would be his next victim?
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Detective Black arrived to process the crime scene, although he’d told Claire he doubted they’d find any fingerprints. She belted a robe around herself and made coffee, then clasped the cup to her while the men combed her cottage.
“You didn’t hear anyone last night or this morning?” Black asked.
Claire shook her head. “No. I…I don’t know how I missed hearing him. I’m a light sleeper.”
Mark grunted in disapproval. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” Detective Black said. “As soon as we’re finished, I want you two at the station to review the case.”
Claire agreed, grateful when they allowed her to spray the air with freshener to absorb the pungent medicinal odor. Finally she took a shower. Taking refuge beneath the spray of hot water was heavenly, a place to gather her control, away from the all-knowing eyes of her former lover. She hated being vulnerable, hated having to admit she was unaware that someone had been in her bedroom while she was asleep.
The thought sent a chill through her that no amount of hot water could dissolve. She’d thought her other senses would compensate for her lack of sight.
Composing herself, she toweled off and dressed in a denim skirt and cotton blouse. Thankfully, the therapist at the rehab center had tagged her clothes, so she didn’t worry about looking mismatched. She blew her hair dry and twisted it into a clip, then added a hint of powder and mascara. Makeup was more difficult, but she’d practiced. A touch of lipstick came next. Heaven help her, but her hands were so shaky she almost missed her mouth.
Seconds later, she was seated in Mark’s car, the silence stretching between them as jarring as the juts in the road that led to Savannah.
“I really wish you’d leave town for a while,” Mark said as they entered the police station.
Now that the shock was wearing off, anger plucked at Claire. “I don’t intend to be victimized,” she said in a firm voice. “And when this man entered my house and moved my things around, that’s what he did.”
“Claire…”
Mark’s husky tone reeked of concern, tugging at feelings she didn’t want to revisit. “I’m not going to argue over this, Mark. Now, let’s look at those police reports. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
A sigh followed, his only reply.
Things turned even more awkward when they arrived at the station. She hated looking so helpless, having to take Mark’s arm as they climbed the steps.
Hated even more wanting not to release him.
Detective Black ushered them into a room, then spread the police reports of the two victims on the table. Mark began to study them, leaving her completely out of the loop and magnifying the fact that she was a burden now, not his equal.
“Read me the contents of the reports,” Claire said.
“You don’t need to know the details,” Mark said, that protective air vibrating around him.
Claire sighed. “How can I create a profile of the killer if I don’t know the facts?”
Mark hesitated, his reluctance obvious.
“You’ll have to be my eyes, Mark,” she said, frustrated that she needed him. “Now read me the report.”
He shuffled the papers, then read in a monotone. “The first victim, Dianne Lyons, was single, twenty-five, blond. She lived with her boyfriend and cat and worked as a waitress at a local diner in Savannah. She was found lying facedown in the sand at Serpent’s Cove, strangled and blindfolded with a scarf. Forensics is still analyzing the scarf.”
“What about the autopsy report?”
Mark exhaled in a rush. “Claire—”
“I