Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

a few years ago.” Meaning, Sam used him to get to me, in some way. He doesn’t want to say how. I don’t want to make him either. “Let me make a call.”

“We should do this tomorrow.”

“If you’re right, if this guy started attacking you and the kids because you got involved in Kez’s case . . . we can’t wait. We need to push hard. Now. Before things get any worse.”

He’s right. I’m so tired I could cry, but he’s right. “Okay,” I say. “Sam? Is it safe to do this? I mean, safe for you?”

He doesn’t hesitate this time. “I’ve met him a few times. Never had any trouble.” That doesn’t answer my question, and we both know it.

But this is a test too. A test of my ability to trust. And I have to say, “Okay,” and let him go. Because it’s his risk to take, not mine to prevent.

He steps away for a couple of minutes, and comes back putting his phone in his pocket. “He’s willing to meet,” he says, “but not tomorrow. Has to be tonight. I need to go now. He’s not the kind of guy who waits.”

“Sam—” I bite my lip to keep the rest of it in, and finally say, “Just be careful, okay? Write down where you’re going?”

“I’ll text you when I get there,” he says. “But don’t follow me. And don’t do anything for at least an hour if I don’t answer a call or text. Okay? He likes to talk. And he likes phones to be silent while he does.”

I just nod. It sounds to me like Sam is allowing this man to set all the terms, and I don’t like that at all.

Trust me, his expression says.

I hope mine says, I do.

He kisses me, whispers that he loves me, and then he’s gone.

12

SAM

I don’t want to do this, not on any level. Everything, everything, is shouting at me to turn the truck around as I drive away. I know I’m going to regret it—that’s not even a question.

But sometimes you have to do the tough thing knowing it’s going to leave a scar.

The instructions I’ve been given lead me to a barely operational motel on the outskirts of a rough part of K-ville; it’s one step away from rent-by-hour, and nothing’s ever looked more like a trap to me. This isn’t Dr. Dave’s normal routine. We’ve always met in public before . . . but then again, I haven’t met Dr. Dave in years, and that last time was only because it was necessary; I was already pulling away from the anti-Gwen crusade. Still a deeply unpleasant, disturbing memory.

I know this will be worse.

I sit for a minute, wondering whether I should do this at all, and then I text the motel address to Gwen. She texts back ILU.

It means a lot in this moment that she does love me. It means even more that she trusts me to get this done for us. Letting go, stepping back . . . that’s something that takes one hell of a lot of courage for Gwen. And I can’t let her down.

I text the burner number that Dr. Dave gave me: Here.

I get a response that says, 4.

I make sure my handgun is in place on my belt. I don’t want to need it, but I’d be an idiot not to come armed to this, and besides, he’ll know that I will. Dr. Dave is many things. He’s not stupid.

Room 4 is at the far end of the first level, isolated. As I stand ready to knock, for a disorienting second I have a sense-memory of another motel like this. Gwen and I stayed in several while we searched for Melvin Royal. I blink and see Gwen coming out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower. That was the first time I knew, really knew, that I was completely in love with her. That moment is fixed in my mind, eternal and bright. We weren’t lovers then.

But it was the start.

I knock on the door, and the memory breaks apart under the hollow sound. I don’t hear footsteps, but the door swings open.

Dr. David Merit smiles at me. Good-looking white guy, strong face, great teeth. He looks normal, and that’s the terrible thing about Dr. Dave. He’s a fairly prominent local dentist. His patients have absolutely no idea that the man they’re letting put his fingers in their mouths is a vicious, amoral, sociopathic troll. He likes to cloak himself as a “victim defender,” but—like many of the Lost Angels hangers-on—he really just likes any excuse to cause harm, and directing it at those the site identifies as abusers and predators and killers is perfect cover for a sadist.

It is never a good idea to put yourself at Dr. Dave’s mercy. And I don’t. I stare him down, as emotionless against his false warmth as I can be, and I move my jacket so he sees the gun. “Just so we’re clear,” I say, “I don’t like this.”

“Nice to see you, too, Sam.” He steps back to allow me in. The gun, as I expected, bothers him not one bit. I keep my gaze fixed on him, alert for anything that might tell me he’s about to shift his affable mask, but he just calmly closes the door and turns with his arms folded. Still smiling. “Been a while, buddy. But I understand why. Fucking the woman who fucked your sister’s killer must be one hell of a drug.” His opening shot, looking for a weak spot. It’s accurate, but I’m ready. He gets nothing but silence. After a long moment, he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Down to business. What do you want?”

“Let’s talk terms first,” I say. “Because I’ve still got the recordings from three years ago. Before you try it, Tennessee is still a one-party consent state. You admitted to things that you really don’t want the public to hear. Or the cops.”

“That again.” Dr. Dave waves it away like a bothersome black fly. “Lots of