“I apologize, too, sweetie.” Rafe winked. “Even though I believe Mal was a bigger
ass than me.” When Leah snorted, he rubbed a palm down her arm, a silent apology added
to his spoken one. “So what brought you by here, anyway?”
“Evelyn came up in a case I’m investigating. Richard Pierce’s disappearance.”
The announcement plummeted into their midst like a huge stone into a still pool. Leah
may not have noticed the ripple effects of her declaration, but Gabriel immediately
saw the anxiety tightening the corners of Mal’s mouth and the stiffening of Rafe’s
shoulders.
“Your uncle?” Rafe asked, no trace of his customary amusement evident in the flat
tone.
“Yes.” She shot Gabriel a glance. “You didn’t tell them?”
Two pairs of eyes swung in his direction containing twin expressions of
what the hell?
“Yes, Gabe,” Mal murmured. “You didn’t tell us?”
“Didn’t have a chance to yet,” Gabriel gritted out.
“No big deal,” Leah said, her gaze skipping from one to the other. “I intended to
speak with each of you eventually.”
If she had hoped to diffuse the rising friction, Gabriel noted with an inner wince,
her good intentions fell woefully short.
“Hey, guys.” Chay’s soft voice interrupted the simmering keg of tension. The group’s
attention shifted to the fourth and youngest member of their tight circle. Chay’s
light brown hair was pushed behind his ears, and Gabriel had an unrestricted view
of his friend’s grave hazel eyes and stern, unsmiling mouth. “I didn’t know you were
all here.”
Rafe put a hand on his shoulder. “Leah called, let us in on what went down. No question
we’d be here.” His face twisted, sorrow and rage creasing his brow, darkening his
expression. “God, we’re so sorry about Darion.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Chay closed his eyes briefly before meeting their collective sympathy.
Stark pain filled his expression. “I had to identify his body. He—” His voice cracked.
Mal cupped Chay’s shoulder, squeezed. A heavy moment of silence passed between them,
and Gabriel could’ve choked on the pain pouring from Chay. Yet, his friend allowed
himself just one display of grief. When Chay raised his bowed head, the agony over
the death of his stepfather, a man he admired and loved, was erased, buried under
a stoicism as much a part of him as his hazel eyes.
“Have you called your mother yet?” Gabriel asked.
“She’s on her way home now. Your mom is bringing her, Mal. Mom didn’t take it well.”
Chay’s lips firmed, his fingers clenching into fists next to his thighs. “I’m afraid….”
Chay didn’t need to complete the thought. After Chay’s father’s abandonment before
her son’s birth and then Richard’s disappearance, Evelyn deserved peace. Ten years
ago, Darion had finally brought that contentment to her life. Would his death send
her spinning into a despair she wouldn’t be able to return from? A wave of empathy
broke over Gabriel.
“The medical examiner believes he may have been dead for at least forty-eight hours.
He’s been lying there on that kitchen floor since Saturday—” Anger roughened Chay’s
quiet tone, lending it a harsh edge they rarely heard. “If his estimation is accurate,
then Mom should have been lying there alongside Darion. If not for Aunt Pam convincing
her to go away for the long weekend, Mom would’ve been home, too.”
Another silence, ominous with images of would’ve- and could’ve-beens, fell over them.
Gabriel added Leah to the disturbing visual, and his nerves did a tap dance.
“Bannon!” a man yelled from the porch. “They need you ’round back.”
Leah started, but quickly recovered. “Coming,” she said to the cop who’d summoned
her. “Be right back.” She brushed her fingers over Chay’s hand, then turned away.
They all watched her stride up the walk. One of the officers bounded down the steps
and led her around the side of the house until she disappeared from their sight.
“So, before she returns, you want to fill us in on this Richard Pierce investigation?”
Malachim demanded. “Damn it, Gabe. You could’ve given us some warning.”
“What?” Chay’s gaze snapped to Gabriel. The blood leeched from his golden skin. “What
is he talking about?”
Gabriel threw Mal a glare before nodding sharply. “Leah’s investigating Richard Pierce’s
disappearance.” He tried not to flinch as Chay’s eyes darkened with a haunted, anguished
shadow.
“Since when?” Chay rasped.
“Friday.”
Gabriel recounted Leah’s visit to his condo Friday evening. He told them of the missing-person
flyer and the anonymous letter she’d received in the mail at her office earlier that
day, concluding with her determination to discover the truth behind her uncle’s disappearance.
“Why now?” Rafe asked, voice hard.
Silence ticked away for several moments as they all digested the implications.
“Who knows?” Gabriel said, suddenly weary. He massaged the nape of his neck where
the ache of tension had set up residence. Jesus, he felt like he’d been dropped smack
in the middle of one of his suspense books. Unlike his novels, though, he had no control
over what happened. He couldn’t delete a scene and remove this unforeseen dilemma
with a few taps of the computer keys. “This person obviously has his or her own agenda.
The real question is who?”
“Richard,” Chay whispered. “It’s Richard.”
Ice crawled through Gabriel’s veins, chilling the intravenous highway until he swore
frost had replaced blood. Chay’s words plunged him into a twenty-year-old nightmare.
“That’s not possible, Chay,” Mal protested quietly. “You know—
we all know
—that’s not possible.”
Chay shook his head as if forcibly dragging himself from the nightmare. “No.” His
gaze settled on each of their faces in turn. “Somehow Darion’s murder is related to
Richard. Leah receives a letter about him on Friday, and Darion is killed a day later?
That is not a coincidence.”
“Chay. Dude.” Rafe rubbed a palm over the nape of his neck. “That’s a bit of a leap.
I mean, yeah, the letter to Leah is unnerving. And I can understand why this”—he flicked
a glance toward the house—“would bring back memories, but—”
“There’s more,” Chay cut in, then faltered.
Gabriel caught the spasm of emotion that crossed Chay’s face. The other man wore guilt
like a wedding ring—never taken off, and forever binding him to his life partner,
shame.
“More? What is it?” Even as Gabriel asked the question, his soul shrank away, cowering
as if Chay’s answer was a great beast waiting to rend and devour.
“Next to Darion’s body,” Chay replied, “there was a gold coin. Richard once told me
he gave them to all his”—he paused, swallowed—“friends.”
The ice thickened, sliding over Gabriel’s chest, piercing his heart.
A gold coin
…
“It could be anything, Chay,” Rafe barked, his hand slashing through the air. Rage
vibrated off him, shimmered between them like heat waves off a hot sidewalk after
a summer storm. Rafe’s anger, Gabriel knew, wasn’t directed at Chay but at a phantom
his friend couldn’t pummel with his fists. Couldn’t make pay for the wrong he’d suffered.
“Shit. Change could’ve just fallen out of Darion’s pocket.”
But once more Chay shook his head. “No, Rafe. His wallet wasn’t on the floor, just
the coin. And it was next to his shoulder, not his waist or hips. Besides”—his eyelashes
lowered and a shudder passed over his tall, lean frame—“I’d know it anywhere. Gold.
The size of a silver dollar. One side is smooth, blank. Engraved on the other is a
laurel wreath and—”
Oh, God. Oh, God, no.
“Lion,” Gabriel finished hoarsely, impotent fury filling his whole body.
Presents scattered over a backseat and floor. Ian slumped over the restraint bar of
the car seat. A flash of gold on the mat beneath his dangling feet
…
The whimper of an injured animal escaped his throat.
“Gabriel.” A hand gripped his shoulder. Shook him. “Gabriel! Are you okay?” Mal’s
voice reached him through a long, muffled tunnel. As if in slow motion, Gabriel brushed
off his friend’s hand and focused on Chay. Shock had slackened the younger man’s face,
his eyes dark pools in a pale face.
“How did you know?” Chay whispered.
Gabriel parted his lips but only a groan emerged. Swallowing, he tried to speak. Tried
to push the words past a throat as parched as a burning desert, as tight as a punishing
noose.
“Because Ian had one just like it when he died,” Gabriel rasped. “When he and Maura
were murdered.”
Chapter Six
My fault. All my fault.
Gabriel tunneled his fingers through his hair and crushed the heels of his palms to
his forehead as if he could keep the chaos whirling in his head from spilling out.
He propped his elbows on top of his drawn-up knees, pressed his spine to the back
wall of his bedroom. It was where he’d finally collapsed after rushing home, leaving
his friends gaping after him as he fled.
God, he wanted a drink—could taste the cool liquid fire on his tongue, sliding down
his esophagus. He craved the blessed oblivion that released him from the prison of
his body. Longed for the sweet forgetfulness as he floated near the ceiling—a wraith,
insubstantial and barely grounded. Because as long as he didn’t inhabit his flesh
and bones, the condemnation couldn’t rip his soul apart. Couldn’t tear into his chest
or splinter his mind into so many shards he wouldn’t be able to put them together
again.
Humpty Dumpty had nothing on him.
But the condo had been purged of alcohol, and though his skin felt thin, almost sheer,
he remained intact…and so full of self-loathing it was grafted into his muscle, tendon,
and skin.
Maura. Ian
.
It had suddenly become crystal clear to him. The crash hadn’t been an accident. They’d
been targeted, murdered. Because of him.
A sob swelled, crested in a strangled cry. All this time he’d cherished that coin,
kept it on or near him at all times, because the small gold piece had been a token
of his son’s final happy moments. Even now, he could hear Ian’s sweet voice chattering
about the early Christmas present “Santa” had given him at the mall while shopping
with his mother that day. At the time, Gabriel had assumed Ian referred to one of
the in-store Santa Clauses. Now…now the small present, the seemingly serendipitous
meeting with his son in a mall teeming with holiday shoppers, had acquired a much
more sinister taint.
How could Gabriel have known the coin was the calling card of a killer? Ian’s killer.
God
. He loosed a harsh bark. The sick fuck who’d stolen his family would get such a kick
out of the irony. He would enjoy the idea of Gabriel huddling on his bedroom floor
like a little boy hiding from the bogeyman who lived in the closet.
But his suffering was the point, wasn’t it?
Him, Malachim, Raphael, Chay—all four of them.
Their
suffering.
Well, job fucking accomplished.
A killer was hunting their loved ones, and Gabriel was powerless to protect or even
to warn them. Just as he’d been helpless with Maura and Ian. But how could he have
known?
When would this psycho strike next?
Who
would be next?
Shit
. He rolled his forehead back and forth on his palm. As a husband and father, he’d
been responsible for Maura and Ian’s safety, to shield them from harm, not invite
the devil into their lives with his secrets and sins.
For twenty years, Gabriel had believed the past buried—if not forgotten, then at least
settled. How wrong, how arrogant, he’d been! And his family had paid the price.
The roar he’d contained moments earlier broke free from his throat and echoed in the
room. It bounced against the walls, escalating in volume until he thought his eardrums
would burst. He shot to his feet. In a wild fury, he swept his arms over the top of
the dresser. The crash of the lamp falling to the floor only fueled the rage incinerating
him from the inside out. He smashed into the wall with his fist, and pain reverberated
up his fingers, wrist, and arm. Still he didn’t stop.
Minutes—hours—later, he sank to the floor, his throat raw, his chest aching. The weight
of his weariness and grief fell across his shoulders like a cross, driving him so
far under he despaired of ever breaking free again.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered. He tipped his head back, stared at the ceiling, and
wondered where the merciful God was he’d heard about all his life. “How much more
do You expect me to take? At least tell me what to do, how to go on,” he prayed—
begged
—for the first time in over a year, his voice cracking.
No answer
.
No surprise.
He dropped his head, and tears stung his eyes. Fear surged up in his chest, and he
blinked furiously. If he started crying, he might not ever be able to stop. He scrubbed
his palms over his face, pressing them to his burning eye sockets before dropping
his hands between his spread thighs.
He needed…
He squeezed his eyes closed, wrapped his arms around his head.
He just…
needed…
…
I bet that damn cell phone is in the bathroom drawer again.
Leah grumbled a few choice words for Gabriel’s sporadic habits of answering his phone—make
that
not
answering—as she unlocked the front door of his condo. She stepped inside, and silence
greeted her. Utter, eerie silence. She frowned. Pale moonlight streamed in through
the living room windows, providing the only illumination in the dark apartment. But
he must be here. And it was only—she glanced down at her wrist—nine o’clock. Way too
early for him to be in bed.
Gabriel would probably snap at her again for abusing the “emergency key,” but she
was willing to risk his bite. He’d been on her mind since she’d returned to Mal, Rafe,
and Chay to find him gone. The three men had been vague about why he’d left, and since
leaving the crime scene a couple of hours earlier, Gabriel hadn’t been answering his
phone.
As she passed the living room, she paused to toss her purse on the couch and not for
the first time shook her head at how empty and soulless the room—the entire condo—remained.
Gabriel had been staying—couldn’t really call what he did “living”—here for two years,
and not one picture, knickknack, or even a magazine littered the table or mantelpiece.
It was a huge difference from the home he’d bought for his family in Sudbury. A home
frozen in time. If she walked into the large foyer today, festive decorations would
still decorate the walls. A towering Christmas tree, its artificial branches green
and vibrant, would still dominate the living room.
Gabriel had abandoned the pretty house but had forbidden her or his friends to remove
even one ornament from a branch or a single gift from under the limbs. The rooms remained
preserved as if a husband, wife, and son would one day walk through them again.
She continued down the condo’s hall and tried to shush the disquiet crawling in her
belly.
So damn quiet
. But it didn’t mean anything. He might have a deadline. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well.
Maybe—
She shook her head. It had been months since she’d last swept a bottle out from under
his bed. Or found a weapon under his pillow…
“Damn,” she whispered and hastened down the hall toward his bedroom. The door was
open, and she didn’t hesitate to step into the darkened room.
What the hell?
Pearlescent beams competed with stygian shadows for dominance. Pockets of dark enshrouded
the corners of the room and half the mattress, which was lurching off its box spring
like a drunken sailor. Black gave way to gray, revealing a busted lamp, the alarm
clock, and bed covers scattered all over the floor.
Fear flared hot and brilliant.
Oh, God. Where is Gabe?
“Tell me! God, please tell me what to do, how I’m supposed to go on.”
The broken whisper reached her ears seconds before a shadow within the shadows moved.
Her heart stuttered. Maybe she made a sound. Maybe the wail in her soul somehow sneaked
its way past her constricted throat. She didn’t know.
The hunched figure beside the tilted mattress lifted its head, and blue eyes burned
in the darkness as if an inner fire blazed behind them like a bright SOS.
She moved forward, drawn to the plea for rescue she doubted Gabriel was aware shone
so desperately in his gaze. She reached out for him, hesitating, as if approaching
a wounded animal in a trap. Fear of his rejection knotted her stomach, as she tentatively
touched the crown of his head. His thick, roughened-silk hair grazed her fingertips
as she slid down the wall, sinking down beside him.
He stiffened as her thigh pressed to his, and for a moment, she believed he would
push her away. Wondered if he would refuse the comfort she yearned so badly to give
him. The need to ease the pain glistening in his eyes, creasing the lean lines of
his face and straightening the full curves of his lips throbbed inside her like a
physical ache. In the past, Gabriel had grieved alone behind a shut door, never allowing
her to see him, to touch him. Her breath snagged in her throat and leaked free like
a popped balloon when the tension bled from his body and he sagged against her, allowing
her to brace the weight of his pain and sorrow.
She didn’t speak; she didn’t ask questions. She just rested her head on his shoulder,
looped an arm through his, and rested her other palm over his heart.
Just held him.
His chest rose and fell on harsh drags of air that whistled in and out between his
lips. A hard shudder racked his frame, and the tremor quaked through her. She tightened
her hold on his arm, curled her fingers into his shirt.
When the cry finally erupted, it ripped from him in a raw, savage fury. His agony
reverberated through the room, and she wondered his chest wasn’t torn open with the
force of it.
He ground his chin into his collarbone, hiding his face from her as the ragged sobs
continued to burst forth. Then, hard, frantic hands were gripping her arms, dragging
her across his lap, and clutching her close. Scalding-hot tears bathed her neck and
shoulder. She swallowed her own cries, even though fissures zigzagged over her heart.
She wound her arms around his head, cradling him, pressing her lips to his damp forehead
and the top of his head.
How long they sat there, she didn’t know.
It didn’t matter. She would’ve remained there on that floor holding him until the
sun crept over the horizon if she could offer some small measure of peace. He wouldn’t
be alone tonight.
Not on her watch.
…
The crisp fall morning air, tart with the briny tang of the Mystic River, brushed
over Leah’s face as she jogged down the staircase leading from Gabriel’s condominium
and strode along the sidewalk toward her car. At a quarter to nine, tourists already
strolled along the river, headed toward the historical Navy Yard, and enjoyed the
circular paths in Paul Revere Park. She loved the waterfront with its rich maritime
history. The steel battleships of olden times rose like gray sentinels over sleek,
elegant sailboats that bobbed in the harbor. Old and new, side-by-side. It was a beautiful
neighborhood and a brilliant morning, but Leah would trade its loveliness in a nanosecond
still to be holed up in a Spartan condo, curled around a sleeping Gabriel in the dim
coolness of his bedroom.
After reaching her car, she slipped behind the steering wheel, and twisted the key
in the ignition.
“I’m so tired
.”
Gabriel’s tormented whisper from the night before ricocheted in her head. The three
words had contained so much pain, so much weariness. As if, after two years of fighting
to come back from the tragedy that had ripped his life apart, he’d given up. As if
he was finally surrendering to the shadows of loss and despair.
She blinked. Hard.
Don’t cry, damn it. What have tears ever solved?
Not a damn thing. They hadn’t saved her mother or penetrated her father’s grief.
They hadn’t brought Richard back.
She absently rubbed her arm and shoulder. Hours had passed, yet the hot splash of
Gabriel’s tears still seared her skin. He’d cried in her embrace until exhaustion
had claimed him, and his arms had become leaden weights around her body. But the wife
and son he cherished were still dead, and he was still alone and hurting, yearning
for a life forever lost to him.
Anger simmered in Leah’s belly, and she shifted in the driver’s seat, uncomfortable
with the resentment she couldn’t ignore or squelch. She was a bitch—a selfish bitch.
But she couldn’t deny the bitterness bubbling within her like a seething cauldron.
Last night had not been the first time she’d discovered Gabriel drowning in his sorrow
and pain. But at least six months had elapsed since the previous episode. And never—
never
—had he allowed her to remain in the same room with him, much less hold him.
Jesus
. Her throat convulsed, and the damn useless tears stung her eyes again. He’d clutched
her to him as if she were a flimsy raft on storm-tossed waves…the only thing keeping
him from going under.
Stupidly, she’d believed Gabriel had started to come out on the other side. But seeing
him on his bedroom floor, his face twisted in grief and pain, she realized her assumption
had been wrong.
Had it been the murder of Chay’s stepfather that had set him back so far? Another
senseless, terrible death that reminded him of his own loss?
Why didn’t he fight? She slapped her palm against the steering wheel before curling
her fingers around it. The ridges bit into the soft flesh but she tightened her grip,
welcoming the slight sting. Why didn’t he fight for his life? For the people who loved
him?
For…
her
?
Humiliation coiled in her breast. Once more, she was the little five-year-old girl
desperate to understand her mother’s death and her father’s abrupt abandonment. Desperate
to be loved, to feel accepted, to feel worthy.
“Shit,” she grumbled, swiping at her eyes where, in spite of her grim determination,
moisture had gathered. She pulled into the Beacon Hill parking deck and cut off the
engine. With a soggy, humorless chuckle, she leaned her forehead against the wheel.
“Freud would have an effin’ field day with me.”
Abandonment issues. Destined to love someone unattainable. Hell, she belonged on a
therapist’s couch. Because if last night had revealed anything to her, it’d been the
futility of this hopeless love for a man who would never see her as a woman. Though
Gabriel’s wife was gone forever, he remained as married today as he’d been two years
ago.