City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(13)

The security panel flashes green. Unarmed. That’s when I know something’s wrong.

I dash in to see a lamp toppled to the floor, the shade three feet away, the bulb smashed across the carpet.

There’s blood on the floor.

Blood on the floor.

Oh, God. Oh f*cking God. First Kurt. Now Diana.

I never called to warn her. No, worse—I called and when she didn’t answer, I thought, Huh, guess she’s sleeping.

The blood turns to drips in the hallway. Those drops lead into the bathroom, and there’s Diana lying on the floor, bloody water everywhere, a red-streaked towel clutched in her hand. I drop beside her, my fingers going to the side of her neck.

She’s breathing.

I carefully turn her onto her back. The blood is from her nose. Broken. Again. Her lip is split, more blood there. A black eye. Torn and bloodied blouse. I quickly check for holes—bullet or blade. She moans when I touch her chest, and I rip open her shirt to see her bruises rising on her torso. She’s breathing fine, though. No broken ribs. No lung damage.

I take out my phone to call 911. Her eye opens. One eye, the other swollen shut. One bloodshot eye that looks up at me as she whispers, “No.”





Eight



Diana won’t let me call 911. I help her into the living room, set her on the couch, and try to argue, but she’s crying, verging on sobs, shaking her head so vehemently that blood and tears fleck the sofa.

“You need a hospital,” I say.

“I’m fine,” she says, and shudders as she gets her crying under control.

“You were passed out on the goddamn—”

Her flinch asks me not to swear.

“You passed out on the floor, Di.”

“No, my head was hurting, so I lay down. I didn’t fall.”

“And that makes a difference? A blow to the head means a concussion—”

“Which we have some experience treating, don’t we?” She tries for a smile and her face crumples instead. “I can’t do it, Casey. I know you want me to be stronger, but I’m just so tired of this. The police won’t believe me, and I can’t keep defending myself. Nothing good comes of it.”

“Whatever your attacker said, don’t listen. It’s not about Graham this time. It’s my problem. I’ll fix it.”

Her face screws up. “You?”

“Leo Saratori found me,” I said. “It was that therapist. That goddamn therapist.”

Diana continues to stare in confusion. “Therapist?”

“She must have looked up my story and told someone and somehow it got back to Saratori. But it’s definitely him, so no matter what your attacker said—”

“Casey, it was Graham.”

“He said it was Graham?”

“No, this.” She waved at herself. “It was Graham. He did this.”


Is it possible to screw up more than I have in the last few days? First I tell a stranger my deepest secret and expect client–therapist privilege to cover it. Next I’m stalked in the parking garage and dismiss it. Then I go to my lover’s and lead my stalker to him. And, finally, I believe my best friend is safe because her psycho ex checked out of his hotel.

I screwed up. People suffered. People I care about.

Diana tells me that Graham came by around midnight. He must have figured out she was there and, not seeing my car in the garage, hoped I wasn’t.

“I did open the door,” she says. “But I was holding it. I only wanted to get rid of him. I had my phone out to call you if he wouldn’t leave, and the next thing I knew, he was inside and he had my phone.”

“We’re calling the police. There’s video this time. The lobby has surveillance. It’ll show Graham coming and going, and there’s going to be blood on him when he leaves. We’ve got him, Di. We’ve finally got him.”


The superintendent knows I’m a cop, which is damned inconvenient most times—I’m the tenant she calls when she has a question about anything from eviction to parking enforcement. But I’ve been patient and polite, and it pays off now.

The security tapes show Graham arriving at 11:48 p.m. Twenty minutes later, he’s walking out. Both times, he’s wearing a jacket.

“He took it off,” Diana says. “When I answered the door, he had it over his arm.”

Of course he did. Easier to punch without a jacket restricting your swing. Also easy to put it on afterward and hide the blood.

Graham looks at the camera. He smiles. He mouths, “Hi, Casey,” winks, and continues on.

“He said something,” Diana whispers. “Right to the camera. Did you see that?”

I nod.

“Can you make out what he said?”

I shake my head. What would I say? I did this. I’m sorry, Di. I was trying to fix the problem. Desperately trying to fix it, and I made a mistake. All he had to do was switch hotels and lie low for a day, and I sauntered away to Kurt’s, convinced I’d spooked him.

I hadn’t spooked him. I’d only pissed him off.

I watch the video three more times, searching for even a smear of blood, but the quality is too poor, and he’s too careful. He’s done it again, and I’ve failed her. Again.