Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(42)

“Fine. Pat did most of the parenting.”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?” Conor eased backward, toward the door. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Brush off the credit.” Leena closed the distance between them and poked him in the chest with one finger. She might as well have used a knife. “He couldn’t have done it without you, and you know it.”

Yeah. Leena saw right through him. Conor took a step sideways. “I’m thrilled for Jaynie.”

“Conor . . .” She shook her head. “You haven’t been yourself all summer. Talk to me. Pat said you have a new girlfriend?”

“She’s not really a girlfriend.”

“What is she?”

Good question. “I don’t know. She’s wrapped up in the police investigation.”

Leena put her hand on his biceps. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m innocent.”

“Duh.” Leena rolled her eyes. “That isn’t what I asked you.”

“Everything will be OK.” He leaned over and gave his sister-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good luck with Snorezilla. Love ya, Leena.” Conor bolted, closing the door behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Leena or anyone else about his mood. He wanted what Pat currently had—oblivion, at least for a short time. But he had a business to run. Only one Sullivan could be incapacitated at a time.

He strode out on the sidewalk, his boot heels ringing on concrete covered with chalk drawings of rainbows. Walking promoted thinking, another thing he was avoiding, and he was glad to slide back into the Porsche.

Conor lucked out and found a spot at the curb around the corner from the bar. He cut through the alley toward the back door. Back to the bar. Back to work. But his mind was on Pat’s family.

All Conor wanted was a simple life. He’d always thought he’d end up like Pat, with a wife and kids and a cramped but happy house.

Barbara’s betrayal had floored him.

She’d come into the bar and pursued him with the single-minded focus of an alley cat chasing a rat. Why hadn’t he seen her true predatory nature? She’d been sexy, wild, and always eager for him. They’d spent most of that summer in his bed. Probably if the relationship had gone on, he’d have realized it was nothing but sex. But at the time, the overabundance of sex hadn’t promoted deep introspection.

Even more shocking than the husband walking into the bar and calmly informing Conor that he was sleeping with his wife was her reaction. Unwilling to compromise the lifestyle her wealthy husband provided, Barbara had broken it off with Conor with barely an it was fun while it lasted shrug.

Looking back on it now, with the perspective of time and distance, everything they’d had suddenly looked cheap and sleazy.

Conor hadn’t been tempted to start a new relationship since, until he’d met Louisa. Unfortunately, he might not have the time to find out what could happen between them. The police would get the test results back in a few more days. What would happen then? Would they arrest him? Did they even have any other serious suspects? And more importantly, was Zoe still alive?





16


At this point in the game, my biggest concern was that someone would discover my captive. Though I’d have heard about it. An explosion would likely make the evening news.

After a careful cruise through the neighborhood, I parked the old sedan in front of the building. The streetlamp overhead was out, but the harvest moon shone from a clear sky, its faint orange tint casting a sepia glow over the desolate block. I hadn’t seen a single soul on my reconnaissance. The area was so empty the streets could be used as the set for an urban apocalypse film.

With gloved hands, I took my tool bag from the trunk and went inside, careful of the footing. After clicking on my flashlight, I edged my way to the stairwell. A board gave way under my shoe. With a quick grab, I spared myself an ankle-breaking plunge into the basement. At the top of the steps, I examined my trip wire. The booby trap was undisturbed. Removing the trip wire was delicate business. Finished, I descended.

The only inhabitant was the one I’d left there. I played the beam of my flashlight over her face. Naked, she lay curled on her side on the floor against the back wall, her hands cuffed behind her back and fastened to a pipe. Her eyes and nose had leaked all over the duct tape on her mouth, the tears and snot drying to a cracked white film on her skin. Blood crusted across the wounds on her thighs. The puddle of urine had dried to a brown stain on the concrete.

I was definitely done with her.

Over the mess on her face, her gaze still pleaded. But as I stood in the doorway, truth overtook the faint glimmer of hope and stomped it into the ground.

She knew this was it.

Dropping the bag at my feet, I knelt and pulled out the knife. Moving behind her to avoid the initial gush, I raised the weapon. She slid sideways, making the angle difficult.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” I said, though secretly wishing she would do just that.

I reached for her chin to hold her head and neck still. She thrashed hard for someone dehydrated and weak. After the last experience, I’d only allowed ten minutes for the actual death. But she fought considerably harder than my first, using her bound legs as a counterweight to fling her body sideways.

I stepped on her head to pin it to the concrete. She twisted, but my weight immobilized her. I slashed the knife across the stretched, white skin of her neck. A low moan seeped from her lips as blood spurted in even pulses across the concrete. Her body twitched; fear clouded her eyes.