The Ex

“You’re one in a million, kiddo.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t,” he said. “Besides, if I do, you’ll remind me.”

“Got that damn straight.”

“Get me Powell’s number as soon as possible,” Quinn said. “He’s the best money can buy and—”

“You always buy the best.”

“You know me too well.” Quinn grunted. “I want my own private investigator to assist the Memphis police in their job of finding Lulu’s killer. Unless they come up with something damn quick, they may not look any further than me.”

Chapter 5 (#u64125e08-32ea-55f4-bd6a-ca8893004330)

He could hear her footsteps coming closer and closer. Any minute now she would open the door to his room and come inside, just as she always did whenever he had displeased her. He tried so hard to be good, to make her happy, but it seemed that he couldn’t do anything right. Everything he said and did was wrong. Even the way he looked angered her.

“You’re much too handsome,” she had told him repeatedly, from as far back as he could remember. “You’re going to break a lot of hearts if I don’t stop you.”

“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

“You’ve always been a liar. If I don’t punish you for your sins, God will. You’ll burn in hell if I can’t beat the evil out of you.”

Sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor, he trembled as he watched the doorknob turn. He had locked the door once, but when she’d removed the hinges and taken the door off the frame, she had been wild with anger. His punishment had been severe. She’d broken his arm that time. And when he’d hidden in the closet, she’d whipped him so severely that he still bore the scars on his buttocks.

The door opened. His heart beat like crazy, thumping so loudly that it deafened him to the sound of her voice. He couldn’t understand what she was saying as she stood there hovering over him, a stern look on her face. He knew she was screaming, outraged by what he’d done.

He dared a quick glance up at her, his gaze focused not on her face, but on the erect index finger she pointed directly at him. Whenever she scolded him, she used her index finger to emphasize her point. God, how he hated that judgmental finger.

Suddenly, she stopped ranting. He held his breath, knowing what would come next. She lifted her hand and brought it down across his face, slapping him so hard that he reeled backward. He lay there, feeling completely helpless as she pointed her finger at him again and continued berating him. Cuddling into a small protective ball, he lay there waiting for the next blow. He didn’t have long to wait. She removed the thick leather belt from around her waist, folded it in two and then snapped it. He cried out with fear.

He hated that belt, the instrument of his torment. She wore it with every pair of jeans she owned. A brown leather belt with a wide brass buckle.

She kept talking, but still he couldn’t hear her, only the drone of her agitated voice. But he knew what she was telling him to do. With trembling hands, he slid his pajama bottoms down his hips and trembling legs, then kicked them off. He dared another glance up at her. She smiled at him.

Oh, God, help me. Don’t let her beat me again.

She motioned for him to roll over, which he did. The first blow to his backside stung something awful. Those first few blows were always the worst. After about a dozen strikes over his flesh, the pain was so bad that it began to become a part of him.

Tears welled up in his eyes.

Begging and pleading wouldn’t do any good. He’d tried that over and over again.

I love you, Mommy. I want to obey you. I’ll try harder. I promise I’ll be good.

She hit him repeatedly, so many times that he finally lost count. The pain surged through him as blood oozed from the stripes covering his bare buttocks.

“It’s my duty to punish you, to save you from yourself and your evil ways.”

Tears trickled down his cheeks.

“You know I’m doing this for your own good, don’t you?” When he couldn’t manage a reply, she reached down, grabbed him and shook him. “You’ve been a very bad boy, Quinn.”

The scream inside him ripped him apart.

His eyelids flew open as he shot straight up in bed. It wasn’t real. Not anymore. It was a nightmare. That’s all. He’d been asleep, taking a nap, and as so often happened, his subconscious forced him to relive those horrific days from his childhood. With his heart thundering and sweat glistening on his skin, he took several deep breaths.

That same nightmare or one very similar plagued him relentlessly. No matter what he did, he couldn’t escape. No matter how many miles or years he’d put between the two of them, she would never release him completely. She’d be a part of him until the day he died.

But she can’t hurt you, he told himself. She can never hurt you again.

Griffin Powell didn’t go into the office on the weekends, and unless he was personally working on a case, he didn’t do anything work-related on Saturday and Sunday. After all, a man had to make time for a social life. He’d spent most of the afternoon working out in the gym he had designed to fit into the basement of his Knoxville home. Keeping physically fit was one of his top priorities. After wiping the perspiration from his face, he hung the small white towel around his neck and headed for the shower, but before he reached the bathroom adjacent to the exercise room, Sanders appeared at the foot of the stairs.

Sanders had been Griffin’s assistant for a number of years, ever since he’d been at Griffin’s side on his personal journey to hell and back. They shared a comradery only those who’ve depended upon each other to stay alive truly understood.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’ve taken two phone calls that were made to your private number.”

Griffin cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“One was from Quinn Cortez. He wants you to investigate a murder case. It seems he discovered his lover’s dead body last night and as of right now, he is a person of interest to the Memphis police department.”

“Quinn Cortez, huh? The Quinn Cortez.” Griffin’s lips lifted with amused interest. “I’ll call him after I take a shower.”

“There was a second telephone call.”

“Someone more interesting than Quinn Cortez?”

“This person’s call makes Mr. Cortez’s call even more interesting.”

“And this person is?

“Annabelle Vanderley.”

“Annabelle? Why didn’t you put her through to me immediately?”

Griffin recalled the one and only time he’d met the lady. And she was a lady, down to the very marrow in her bones. Born and bred to Mississippi royalty, the descendant of two wealthy, prestigious families—the Vanderleys and the Austins. They’d been introduced by a mutual friend at a charity function in Chattanooga three years ago and he’d found Ms. Vanderley vastly intriguing. He’d made subtle overtures, which she’d ignored. He was unaccustomed to being rejected, so out of curiosity, he had asked their mutual friend for details of Annabelle’s personal life. Once he’d been told she had a crippled fiancé to whom she was devoted, he hadn’t ask anything else. Encroaching on another man’s territory wasn’t Griffin’s style.

“I wasn’t aware you knew the lady,” Sanders said, his face expressionless.

“We met briefly several years ago.”

“And she made a favorable impression.”

Griffin nodded. “What did Annabelle want?”

“She also wants to hire you to investigate a murder case. It seems her cousin was murdered in Memphis last night and—”

“Damn! Annabelle’s cousin and Quinn Cortez’s lover are one in the same, right?”