Find Me (8 page)

Sarah fell back onto the bed. Damn it. Damn her editor. This was his fault. She'd had that little meltdown a couple of years ago and he'd blackmailed her into therapy. One session per week or no field assignments. Even worse, he kept Ballantine abreast of Sarah's assignments—just to ensure she wasn't working too hard or going against the doc's orders.

Damn it.

"Sure." She made a face. "Now's fine."

"Excellent."

The sound of a page turning told Sarah the doc was preparing to take notes. At least she wasn't recording it. Sarah hated recorded sessions. What if someone broke into the doc's office and stole the tapes or the notes? The dirt-bag killer here in Youngstown wasn't the only one with secrets.

Sarah would just as soon hers stayed where they belonged. In the past.

"How have you been sleeping?"

"Great." Lie one.

"Good. Any dreams or nightmares that wake you or unsettle you?"

"Nope." Lie two. She usually made it all the way to four before Dr. Ballantine called her on her lack of cooperation.

"Any night sweats or headaches?"

"Nada." Three. Sarah reached up and righted the painting of the harbor hanging over her bed.

"Have you been taking your medication?"

"Absolutely." Four.

"When did you last eat?"

Hey, this was going pretty damned good. Maybe she should do this over the phone more often. "About two hours ago. This hot guy took me to a cozy restaurant right on the water. It was nice." Five. Six.

Damn, she was on a roll.

"I'm impressed, Sarah."

She was, too. "I try, Doc."

"Now." Paper rustled as Dr. Ballantine flipped to a new page in her notepad. "Let's start from the beginning once more. This time I'd like the truth."

Sarah rolled her eyes. Fooling Ballantine had been wishful thinking. "Shitty. Yes. Yes. No. And I can't remember."

"I see."

Honesty was never the best policy when it came to shrinks.

At least not for Sarah.

"So, you're not sleeping. You're experiencing those same nightmares. You're having night sweats and headaches. Not taking your medicine. And you haven't eaten today."

"I had coffee and wine. Does that count?"

"Sarah."

She sat up and opened the drawer on the bedside table. A room service menu mocked her. "You know I hate to eat at these places. They could poison me."

"Paranoid already? You haven't even been there twenty-four hours. Doesn't it usually take forty-eight?"

There was nothing worse than a shrink who knew every about you. "Okay. I'll eat. Then I'll take my medicine and go to sleep. I won't dream or sweat or any of that other shit. Okay?"

"I wish I could trust you to do exactly that." Dead air pulsed between them. "Sarah, if you stay on this track you're headed for trouble. Following my advice is the only way to avoid it. You know this."

Sarah pulled out the menu and scanned the items available after seven. What else would one eat in Maine? Chowder.

"I'm ordering something right now. You can listen." Sarah ignored whatever the doc said and placed her cell on the table while she made the call on the room phone. She ordered the chowder and hot tea. A young, female voice promised to deliver the order within fifteen minutes. Sarah recradled the receiver and picked up her cell. "You happy now?"

"Sarah."

Here it came. The talk.

"Have you forgotten what happened last time?"

Sarah scrubbed her free hand over her face. "Of course not." How could she? She'd spent seven days in a padded room with voices that weren't hers screaming in her head. Then another seven days under close observation.

"This is the way it starts," Ballantine scolded gently. "You stop eating and taking your medicine. You stop sleeping and then you become vulnerable to the break."

The break. That was the official diagnosis. A break in reality. The inability to control one's thoughts or actions and to discern the real from the imagined.

Not exactly a trip to the islands.

"I'll check in with you tomorrow," Sarah promised. "I'll be fed and fully medicated. I swear."

"I've seen the news reports regarding the case you're working on, Sarah. You let yourself be vulnerable and you could end up a victim. You know this. It's one of the hazards of your work. Not to mention the fact that you're not going to win any popularity contests while you're there. Stress can be an overpowering enemy."

"Yeah. Yeah. I got it, Doc. I'll do better."

"Tomorrow," Ballantine reminded. "Five o'clock. You call me and give me an update."

Sarah gave her assurance and ended the call. She pitched her cell aside and lay there for a long, disturbing moment considering all that Ballantine had said.

The medicine made Sarah groggy, slowed her reactions. She just forgot to eat. It wasn't on purpose. And the dreams et al, she had about as much control over those as she did the rest of her life. Shit happened.

She'd always dealt with it just fine except that once.

Maybe the case had been too close to home. The murdered kids had been between eight and ten years of age. Sarah had empathized too closely with their vulnerability. Gotten in too deep… nearly gotten herself killed.

She touched her right side. Shuddered.

Put it away. Don't even look.

In her experience the best medicine for her was work.

As long as she remembered not to trust anyone but herself.

With that in mind, she sat up and reached for her shoulder bag. She never left home without it. Inside she carried a folder on whatever case she was working, a flashlight, compact pair of binoculars, an ultrathin digital camera, pepper spray, matches, and toilet paper. Oh, and a bottle of water. The bag was her life preserver.

She pulled the folder from the bag and thumbed through her handwritten notes and the newspaper clippings and police reports she'd gathered. As if she'd gone blind and couldn't see any of those things, her thoughts wandered back to Conner. If she opted to keep him around, how long would it take her to win him over to her side? A couple of days? Maybe. Right now he was just doing the job he'd been ordered to do. But he wanted the truth just as badly as she did. Maybe more. He wouldn't find it until he backed off that high horse of his and admitted that the killer could be anyone.

That could be expecting too much. Maybe winning him over wasn't possible.

She'd learned in the past couple of hours that he wasn't quite as easygoing as he appeared.

Not twenty minutes ago she had reminded herself what trouble she could get into hanging around with a guy like him. Suddenly she was leaning in that direction.

Kale Conner was a means to an end. He could help her get into places she might not get into otherwise. He could be useful. Keeping him around another day or so couldn't hurt.

The last piece of research material she had in her file was a photograph that had cost her editor a pretty penny. A copy of a crime-scene photo taken of Valerie Gerard's body on the cold stone floor at the chapel.

Why hadn't Conner told her the truth about the body?

Maybe he'd been instructed not to. After all, that detail hadn't been disclosed to the public. Nine days and counting and there hadn't been a leak yet. But that wouldn't last. Eventually someone would get smart enough to bribe the same tech she had and then the proverbial shit would hit the fan.

That one detail was more telling than any other related to the condition of the body. It also told something significant about the killer.

A single word had been written along the victim's torso in her own blood.

That one word shifted this homicide to a whole different level.

A very personal level.

Sarah stared at the photo of the young woman who had died such a slow, painful death.

"Who hated you enough to call you that?" Sarah murmured. "Then killed you for it?"

One word, four seemingly innocuous letters that when aligned together carried profound meaning.

LIAR.

1812
Captain's Alley
, 8:30 P.M.

Kale spread the invoices across the kitchen table. Christine, his secretary, had done an outstanding job organizing the paperwork he needed to sign. He penned his legal signature on one document after the other, then leaned back in the chair and considered that was about all he needed to do for now.

Truth was, the business could basically run itself without him. The tension that admission generated flexed in his clenched jaw.

What did that say about his life?

Maybe not a whole hell of a lot. He'd called his father and reviewed this month's ledger. All was satisfactory considering it was the end of February and still damned cold. Business would kick into high gear as spring neared.

His crew didn't need him holding their hands or overseeing their work. Kale's absence around the office during Sarah Newton's stay in Youngstown would scarcely be missed though he would never admit as much.

He should be glad. He should be damned thrilled that he had reliable employees and loyal customers.

But those things didn't fill the emptiness expanding inside him with ever-increasing steadiness lately.

Pushing back his chair, he stood and paced his kitchen. His golden retriever, Angie, swished her tail across the floor, her big eyes following her master's movements. He could take her for a walk or load the dishwasher. Taking care of a load of laundry or two wouldn't hurt. He never had to worry about cooking. His mom always made enough for him when she prepared the family meals. If he failed to stop by and pick up dinner, his sister delivered it each evening before dark. He would come home and find a home-cooked meal waiting for him.

Kale stopped, hands on hips, and surveyed the home he'd bought seven years ago. Seriously spacious for a bachelor. Ocean view across the street. Two-car garage, small, easily maintained yard. He had every reason to be proud of his accomplishments.

Why wasn't he?

He threaded his fingers through his hair and heaved out a disgusted breath.

It was her.

She'd stormed into town and shaken up his carefully constructed, strictly maintained routine.

Kale shuffled into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. He stared at the leather bench-style ottoman that served as his coffee table. If he lifted the lid, photos and school yearbooks were stored inside. His mom had been so proud when he became a homeowner. She'd made sure that what she considered important lifetime memorabilia was safely and conveniently stored in his new home.

But Kale never looked at any of it. It no longer mattered that he'd been the valedictorian of his class or that he'd gotten a full scholarship to the University of Maine. Responsibilities and obligations had derailed all that.

As much as he at one time had wanted to… there was no going back to the past. He couldn't go back to being a student now. He was thirty damned years old. He should be married and raising a family.

That was another thing he'd forgone the past few years. Relationships. At first he hadn't had time. Then… he didn't know… maybe he'd lost interest, other than the occasional date that usually included meaningless sex.

What had happened to him?

And why was he only just now paying attention?

Her
. It had to be her.

When the mayor had asked him to take on this "public relations" role, Kale had taken the responsibility seriously, as he did all obligations. He'd done his research. Sarah Newton was a free spirit who never let anything hold her back or slow her down.

As interesting as her background was, it was the woman, in the flesh, who made him feel inadequate about his own life. She'd charged in and gone straight for what she was after. No second-guessing, no hesitation. No apologies.

When had he lost his enthusiasm for what came next?

He dropped his head on the back of the sofa. Maybe about the same time he'd realized that the only thing that came next in his life was a repeat of the same old thing.

He closed his eyes and cursed himself for being so selfish. His father was paralyzed. Kale's family was solely dependent upon him. He had no right to resent his obligations.

Valerie Gerard was dead. Alicia Appleton was missing.

He damned sure had no right to feel this way when others were suffering real tragedy.

Kale opened his eyes and pushed away the self-pity. He had no one to blame but himself for his lack of a real personal life. He could have a wife, a steady girlfriend at the very least. The rut he lived in, on a social level, was of his own choosing.

He could have changed that situation long ago.

But he'd been waiting…

Funny thing was, he couldn't label what it was he'd been waiting for.

The telephone rang. He didn't have to check the caller ID to know it would be his father.

There was no reason for anyone else to call him.

Just another indication that there was absolutely nothing he should be waiting for.

This
was it.

Angie sauntered into the living room, her nails clicking on the hardwood.

"You wanna go for a walk, girl?"

Her tail wagged.

"Let's do it." Kale stood and headed for the door, Angie on his heels.

Fifteen minutes of fresh air and then he would call his father back and talk about whatever he wanted to discuss.

Like he did every night.