Killer Heat

“No. Not once.”

“I hadn’t heard from him, either.” Not since they’d muddled through the next few months of working for the same police force, avoiding each other. By Christmas, she’d moved from Tempe to Chandler and secured a position with the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. “Not until he walked into the sheriff’s station today.”

“How’d he treat you?”

She wasn’t sure how to describe the meeting. There’d been a surfeit of negative emotion but, considering their history, that wasn’t unexpected or unusual. “Fine.” She hadn’t waited to see what he’d do; she’d gone on the offensive. I know very well how much you like the ladies….

There was another long pause. “Are you okay, Frannie?”

For the first time since she’d picked up the phone, Francesca thought of Butch Vaughn and her gaze shifted to the knife on her nightstand. The blade gleamed in the light streaming in from the hall. She usually didn’t sleep with lights on, but tonight she’d left almost all of them blazing.

It’d be easier to talk about Butch than Jonah, but why scare Adriana? Then neither of them would be able to sleep.

“Of course. I shouldn’t have called.” She didn’t really understand why she had, not after so long. For a brief moment she’d been angry again and had wanted to lash out, that was all. The memories had crowded too close. “I’ll let you go. We can talk tomorrow.”

Adriana hesitated. “Will we have to talk about Jonah?”

“Damned if I know.” She hung up, but the pain she’d heard in her friend’s voice wouldn’t let her leave it at that. Will we have to talk about Jonah? Although what had happened ten years ago still hurt, especially after seeing Jonah today, Francesca didn’t want Adriana to suffer any more than she already had. What was the point?

Aware that she was the only person who could release her, Francesca picked up the phone. But when she pushed the talk button, she couldn’t get a dial tone. Assuming the phone hadn’t had a chance to reset after she’d disconnected, she waited a few seconds and tried again.

Nothing.

“What the heck,” she complained. It was such a bother not having her iPhone.

Then it dawned on her. She didn’t have her iPhone because Butch had kept it; he’d made her dependent on her home phone. And now…

“No,” she breathed, but in her heart she knew. He’d cut the line.

5

Someone was out late.

Smiling at the fact that he’d caught Butch yet again, Dean stood at the back of the house, scuffing his shoe against the hard patch of dirt where his brother-in-law usually parked his big red truck under a metal carport. He could still smell the exhaust of the diesel fuel, could make out a dark spot on the ground where the engine had leaked oil. In the moonlight, it looked like blood….

So where was Butch this time? The way he’d pawed through Francesca Moretti’s purse after Paris went to bed made it all too easy to guess. He was going to pay the private investigator a visit. Paris had to know he was going, too, but she was turning a blind eye. Again.

The fact that she refused to see what Butch really was drove Dean crazy. Well, crazier than he already was, he thought, and chuckled at his own joke.

“You’re a bad boy, Butch,” he whispered into the darkness. “Such a bad, bad boy.” But Butch definitely made life interesting. Dean had to give him that.

Feeling safer than when his brother-in-law was stalking around the place acting like the king of all he surveyed—his sister’s husband was such a Neanderthal—Dean walked around the front of the house to the gate, took the key from his pocket and let himself into the salvage yard. Ever since he was a child and his parents took him to see a magic act where the magician could escape anything, no matter the lock, he’d been fascinated by the concept and spent hours on the Internet, learning to pick locks himself. But it was trial and error that had made him good. He could’ve picked this lock instead of using a key. He did it all the time, just to keep his skills well-honed. But he wasn’t in the mood for a challenge. It was tougher than any house lock he’d ever encountered.

Demon barked, but only to say hello. The noise wasn’t anything that would rouse the fam. He barked worse than that at a squirrel or a lizard.

“Hey, boy. How are you tonight?” Dean stopped long enough to give the dog a scratch. As friendly as Demon was to him, the sheer power in his body reminded Dean too much of Butch. He didn’t want to think about the damage either of them could cause if they really wanted.

Inhaling the warm night air, he closed his eyes to savor the unique scent of the yard—desert, metal, animals, residual cigarette smoke, motor oil. He liked all those smells. This was where he felt the best. These acres were more exciting to him than Disneyland to a kid, especially when it was late and Butch was gone. Then Dean had the run of the place.

Mentally skimming through the list of the various hidey-holes he’d created over the years, he tried to decide where he wanted to spend his time tonight. But he immediately chose the same thing he’d been doing every night, at least lately—searching for Butch’s cache of women’s underwear. There had to be one here somewhere. He’d seen several pairs under the seat of Butch’s truck or hidden in his office, where Paris was less likely to come across them. If Dean had his guess, they were trophies and went into some sort of collection. And he was dying to see how many there actually were.

So where should he start? The old boxcar? The cellarlike space he’d dug beneath the shed? The cavity he’d tunneled out of the junk heap along the back fence? That pile of oil barrels had been there since Dean was three or four years old….

The yard had so many titillating secrets, didn’t it? And, like the underwear cache he hoped to find, the best of those secrets were thanks to Butch.

Take the body in that old freezer. Julia. The young runaway who’d lived with them for a few months. Dean hated that she was dead. He’d liked her when she was alive. But there was some comfort in knowing she’d never leave him.

He figured he’d keep her company while he waited for Butch to return. The exact time of his brother-in-law’s arrival might be of interest.

Francesca held the knife and the pepper spray in one hand while she closed and locked her bedroom door. Such a flimsy barrier might not stop an intruder, especially an intruder who looked as powerful as Butch. But if he tried to reach her through the hall, he’d have to deal with that locked door and she’d definitely know he was coming.

Every bit as jittery as she’d been in the salvage yard, she drew a steadying breath. She’d been on edge since her last encounter with Mr. Vaughn, which made it all too easy to fly into a panic now. But panicking wouldn’t help. She had to be able to think clearly.

What next? What more could she do?

Setting her weapons aside, she shoved the dresser across the hardwood floor toward the door she’d just locked. Maybe her actions would be pointless—maybe he’d break the slider leading from the porch overlooking her pool. But she had to seal off as many points of entry as possible so she could monitor those that were left. Doing something was better than doing nothing.

After wrestling the dresser over to the door, she crouched against the wall where she could keep an eye on the windows as well as the slider. Now that she’d blocked out the light that had been filtering in from the hall, the darkness felt thick and palpable. She would’ve liked to throw the switch in her bedroom, but she didn’t want to make it any easier for Butch to see in. As counterintuitive as it seemed, darkness was safer.

What a bastard, she thought. Did he really believe he could get away with coming after her?

Apparently, he did. And maybe it was true. As long as he didn’t leave any evidence behind, he could do whatever he wanted without fear of punishment. Clever killers often escaped the consequences of their crimes, didn’t they? Of course they did. But whether or not she came out of this alive, Francesca was determined to make sure he left some proof of his identity.

His blood would work nicely.

A thump outside her window made her heart seize. Was that him?

Trying to differentiate one shadow from another, she studied the murky shapes beyond the glass until they began to blur. She was straining too hard. Blinking to give her eyes a rest, she peered out again.

This time she thought she spotted a man….

No. It was the tree that provided shade for the deck. Fear was causing her imagination to play tricks on her.

Breathe. Briefly letting go of the pepper spray, she wiped her damp palm on her bare leg, then did the same with the other hand, the one holding the knife. She wore a T-shirt and panties, nothing in which she felt comfortable confronting anyone who might try to overpower her.

She considered dressing so she’d feel less exposed, less vulnerable. But then she’d have to set her weapons aside for longer than a millisecond, and she was afraid he’d strike as soon as she did. It felt as if he was watching her already, waiting for the perfect opportunity….

Was he looking in while she was trying to look out? The idea that he could be so close raised the hair on the back of her neck. Had he brought his bat? Would he come crashing through the slider? Or would he bide his time—until the unrelenting tension took its toll on her nerves—and use her key?

As the minutes stretched out and nothing happened, she crept to the closest window and raised her head above the pane. The yard appeared empty. The gardener had been by earlier today. She could smell the fresh-mown grass, see the meticulously trimmed plants in the side yard.

The gate stood open. She remembered closing it when she’d locked up for the night, but the latch didn’t always hold….

She needed to see more.

Through the next window, she could make out the area around the deck and pool. Moonlight glimmered off the water and bathed the lounge chairs in pearly white. But she saw nothing that might—

Wait! At the shallow end. A dark shape sat in one of the chairs. No, he was lying down. She was sure of it. His hands were propped behind his head and he was staring up at her room as if he didn’t have a care in the world.