Hyde, an Urban Fantasy (6 page)

Mitch shook his head. “No.”

“But you told the officers on the scene that you believed it was a robbery attempt.”

“What else could it have been?” Jolie said.

Landon shrugged. “You tell me.” When no one responded, he continued. “Is there anyone who wanted to do you or your sister harm?”

“I piss off a lot of people. But would anyone want me dead? Doubt it. Want
her
dead? No way.” She’d been a saint to his Lucifer, living the kind of normal life he’d never have. It was almost as if she was doing it for the both of them.

“What about—” Jolie started. Her eyes widened as the two men focused on her. Then she seemed to relax, enjoying their attention as if they were at a bar discussing which of them she’d go home with instead of talking about death. “What about Leanne Tate? She might have wanted you dead.”

“Who’s Leanne Tate? Did you tell the other detective about her?” He flipped through his notebook again.

Mitch tried to catch Jolie’s eye, cursing her for bringing an innocent into the situation. But she was looking at the cop.

“Leanne is one of Mitchell’s previous clients. She has”—Jolie gave him the international look for ‘whacked’—“issues. She was absolutely obsessed with him for a long time.”

“But I haven’t seen her for a few months, Jolie.”
Fuck, why’d she have to bring Leanne into it at all?
Liars were liars, the guilty were guilty, and innocents should stay the hell away from all of them. Though truthfully, he imagined Leanne was part of the first and second groups most of the time.

“Was she ever violent toward you?”

Shit, the detective would find out eventually. “Yes. A few months ago she attacked me in the parking garage. But it was no big deal.”

“Mitchell, it
was
a big deal.” She looked at Landon. “I was at my car and saw the whole thing. She wanted to hurt him.”

“Did you file a report?”

“Jolie did, but . . .” He shook his head.

“You don’t think it was her.”

“No, I don’t.” Mitch was really struggling here. He wanted the police to figure it out without getting anyone else in trouble. Not sure how that was possible since Jolie had stuck her nose and her questionable integrity into the whole thing. What if it
had
been someone else? Could Leanne have done it? Probably not. But he hadn’t been human at the time, nor had he had any flashbacks of the actual murder. The only thing he knew for sure was what had happened after he’d come back to himself, found himself naked and bloody, Jolie panicking next to him.

“Leanne Tate. I’ll check her out. Is there anyone else who might want to hurt you?” Landon looked at Mitch. After Mitch shook his head, the detective looked at Jolie.

“What about the woman from earlier?” she asked. “What was her name? She looked kind of angry.”

Mitch didn’t give a name. In fact, the faster they stopped talking about her, the better. For all sorts of reasons, among the most obvious was because, “I only met her about a week ago.” Had it been a week? Longer? Nah, he’d been grieving the six-month anniversary of Shelly’s death when he’d slept with the woman. And then more drama had ensued. “Not to mention, I don’t think she’d be capable anyway, she’s too . . . scared of her own shadow.”

“Anyone else?”

Mitch shook his head for what felt like the fortieth time, so Landon looked to Jolie for an answer. She shook her head too, possibly at a loss of who else she could falsely accuse.

“Your sister was pregnant at the time of her death. Who was the father?”

Mitch wished he would stop calling her his sister. It was making the situation even more painful by bringing back all the emotion he so carefully tried to tuck away. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me she was pregnant. I only found out when the cops told me about her autopsy.” God, he hated that word being connected to the only person he’d ever loved.

Landon asked more questions and somehow they were answered—some by him, others by Jolie. He couldn’t keep track. His mind was miles away.

The week before Shelly had died, she’d been laughing, hobbling into her apartment, just back from the hospital. The leg she’d broken skiing wrapped in a white cast. That kind of shit happened to normal people. He’d carried bouquets of flowers from her friends and her bag since she hadn’t yet mastered walking with a cane. After working so hard to convince her to rest, the doctor had given up on the idea of crutches. She hated the cane too, but she used it. That clacking sound as she walked would be forever branded on his eardrums. He tried not to think of the sound the cane might have made each time it had struck her flesh. Before it—and probably
he
—killed her.

“We’re done for now.” The detective stood and closed his notebook. “Thank you for your”—he hesitated—“honesty.”

Jolie straightened her skirt as she stood, still beaming at the guy as if he cared about the caps on her teeth. “You’ll let us know if there’s anything else?”

“Oh, there
will
be something else. A lot of something else’s. I feel like I should tell you that I believe about half of what just came out of your mouth.” His stare rested on Mitch.

Mitch got the feeling the man ended every one of his interviews with that line. “Half? Is that about average?”

Landon smirked, nodding his head in a way that said,
touché
. “Occupational hazard. I never believe anything anyone says. So, actually, half is pretty decent.”

“Then I’ll be satisfied with it.”

”I couldn’t care less about your satisfaction. I’m more concerned with what happened to your sister. The
whole
truth.”

“And nothing but the. Right?”

“I’m not going away, Turner. I’ll be in touch,” Landon said, his jaw tight, “with each of you. Separately.”

As Jolie followed the guy out into the waiting room like a puppy chasing a lion, Mitch called out, “Can’t wait!” She threw him a dirty look and shut the door behind her. Two minutes later, she returned, looking frustrated.

Mitch stopped pretending to be able to focus on work. “Your flirting wasn’t as effective as it usually is.”

She sighed and laid down on the sofa, crossing her legs at the ankle. “I know. Why is it that all the men I
want
seem to be the only ones incapable of seeing my charms?” She gave him a look.

If she was waiting for a compliment, she’d be waiting a while. “Perhaps they can see through to your true intentions.”

Why she put up with him, he’d never understand, but she leaned back against the arm of the couch and said, “Yeah, that could be it.”

A nudge against her thigh jolted Eden awake. A quick glance around let her know she was no longer in her apartment and that someone wearing dark gray slacks and black shoes was shoving his foot into her rear end.

“Why are you here?” Same doorstep. His voice. His aggravated, impatient, gravelly-sounding voice.

Eden looked up as he nudged her again. “Okay, enough. I’m awake.”

“When you visited my office the other day, did I accidentally say I couldn’t wait to see you again? Because if so, I left out a word. I meant to say: I can’t wait to see you
never
again.”

“I’m sorry.”
Why here? Why him?
Couldn’t I have ended up somewhere else? Like—oh, I don’t know—my own bedroom?
Something was drawing her here. For some reason she could fathom even less than why he was still kicking her. “Hey, I said enough! Believe me, this is the last place I’d want to wake up.”

“Old excuse, get a new one. Don’t you have a home? Or a job?” He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her off the flagstone step.

“I was a T.A.” As soon as she was upright, she tore out of his grip and dusted off her bottom.

He glanced at where she had her hands, then at her chest, and smirked. “T and A, huh? Makes sense.”

As repulsive as the idea was, she knew his sarcasm was all bravado.
How
she knew it was still a mystery, however. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but T.A. stands for ‘Teacher’s Assistant’.”

“Oh. Then go play with the little snot-nosers and leave me alone.”

“College students can wipe their own noses.”
Usually
. “Are you this condescending to everyone?”

“Yes. Don’t you have morning classes?”

“It’s summer.”

He looked around, squinting in the sunshine. “Ah, so it is.”

When she starts law school in the fall, would she still be waking up on doorsteps?
His
doorstep?
Just living the dream, aren’t you, Eden?
Would his foot be her alarm clock every morning? His strong features, slicked-back hair, and athletic body be the first thing she saw? It was a great view, but not worth the attitude that came with it.

She couldn’t deny her attraction to him, even as unlikable as he was, which, quite frankly, was a lot. But neither could she believe the attraction was merely sexual—he was like a magnet, one she couldn’t avoid or escape from. Eventually she was going to smack into him even harder than she imagined they had during the night, thankfully, still hidden deeply in her subconscious.

And one or both of them was going to end up
very
bruised. She had to stop that from happening.

“Mitch,” she said.

“No.” He arched his eyebrow and shook his head as if in warning.

“What? I haven’t asked you for anything yet.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Fine. What should I call you? Dickhead?” The word left her mouth before she could stop, her heart pounding even faster. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“What? Calling me a dickhead? I am one.” He cocked his head to the side. “Or worse.”

“True.” But cursing was one of the many things she didn’t do. Not that she cared when other people did, but long ago, she’d made a list of things
not
to do. A list solely based on what she hated most about her mother—sober or stoned. Not cussing was the second simplest thing on it. She’d
thought
sleeping with strangers was the first.
Huh. Perhaps it was time to look at that list again.

“I don’t cuss,” she said.

“Ever?”

“Never.”

“I’m not even sure ‘dickhead’ is a bad word. It’s just two nouns stuck together to describe an asshole.” His hand flew up and he pointed at her. “There you go! Asshole, try that one. Still two nouns, but ‘asshole’ has more punch.”

“I don’t cuss.”

“You got some strange kind of morality going on in that head of yours, lady. Call me whatever you want. Just not ‘Mitch’.”

“Fine. And it’s ‘Eden’. Not ‘lady’ and not whatever name you called me the other day.”

“Chastity? That’s what you told me to call you.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I—” She clamped her mouth shut. Too bad she needed this snot-noser’s help. “My name is Eden. Please call me that.”

“I don’t plan on calling you anything. Other than ‘gone’ or ‘what the fuck was I thinking’.” He brushed past her and headed toward the silver Jag in the driveway.

Eden raced after him. “Mitch— Mitchell?”

He didn’t stop.

“What-The-Frig-Was-I-Thinking!” she called.

He stopped and then turned toward her. He was scowling and his jaw was twitching, but he
had
stopped and turned.

“You have to help me,” she said. “I’m being drawn to you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“She’s leaving me on your doorstep every few days. You don’t think that means something?”

He stepped forward so fast, he nearly knocked her off her feet. “She?”

She stumbled, but caught herself before she fell. “What?”