I’m ready to get the hell out of here when a member of the forensics team pokes his head in the door, a silent question in the lift of his eyebrow. I answer first by standing up. “You can have the room,” I say, “but make sure you search each book on the shelf.”
I leave him to it and still considering how Rip Vaughn ended up dead tonight, I seek out the kitchen, looking for something he may have eaten, thankfully without being stopped, prodded, or poked about Kane. The kitchen is large, with a navy-blue island, mounted with a wood counter. In the center of the counter is a box of chocolate. Bingo. I walk to the box, grab the tiny little envelope on top of the box and pull out the note inside. It reads, “One more for the record books,” with no signature. I set the note down, shoot a photo of it, and stuff it back in the envelope before setting it aside.
Next, I open the box of chocolates to discover they’re custom-made, designed with numbers on them that range from one to thirty. Number one and two are gone. My first thoughts are that a custom item is always a good item to find at a crime scene. Custom means traceable. And if I’m right, and only one of the chocolates was tampered with, that means the killer knew the victim well enough to know he was methodical—he’d start with number one. However, my guess is number two had the weapon inside it, especially since there was no chocolate sitting around near the body or in the bedroom. Rip downed the candy, and the candy downed him.
Officer North appears at the end of the island. “Seems like he drank himself dead, right?”
I decide right then that while I often believe people, in general, irritate me, I’m wrong on that note. People don’t irritate me. Dumb people irritate me.
“Right,” I say. “Maybe the blades that expanded in his throat and cut him open were hiding in the ice in his drink. Maybe he just swallowed a big chunk of ice and boom. He was dead. Oh, wait. There was no ice.”
“It could have melted.”
My lips press together and I force myself not to tell him he’s an idiot, not tonight when I don’t have time for his defensive reply. Somebody needs to, though. “How often do you swallow the ice in your glass, Officer North?”
“It happens,” he insists.
And I’m done with him, I think.
I grab my camera, take a photo of the missing candy, and then reseal the candy. There’s no label on the box. “You think it was the candy,” he observes now.
He’s slow on the uptake, but his version of stupid isn’t a lack of smarts. It’s an overabundance of arrogance that blows up his head and squeezes his brain. “Yep.”
“But it’s down here and he’s upstairs.”
“The best way to keep yourself from eating the whole box is to leave the box behind,” I say.
He removes the box lid and eyes the chocolates. “He ate two pieces. The killer only rigged one piece of candy. Whoever sent this knew he’d follow the order.”
Now he’s got it.
Sometimes the sunshine breaks through the clouds.
He eyes the card and then me. “No name, but obviously, he knew who sent it and trusted that person. He ate the chocolate.”
“He probably thought one of his many women, for instance, the one who sent him naked pictures tonight, sent the candy. And despite being a dick to them, he didn’t think one of them would kill him. Plus, he likes chocolate.”
“You think one of his women killed him?”
“I’m just giving you a menu of options, kind of like Starbucks minus the worthless decaf,” I say, moving on as I add, “I need to know where the candy came from, and then we need to get inside the creator’s kitchen, right away, as in tonight.” I shoot a text to DD, despite her being in the next room, examining the body. I include the photos I’ve just taken and add: He may have carried the candy to the bedroom and eaten it there. I glance at North. “Danica will need to analyze that candy. Make sure it gets to her quickly. And Tic Tac, Jeff Landers, who is a part of my team, will be calling you. Get him what he needs. I’m leaving.”
His expression turns serious. “Right. I get it. I just heard about Kane. I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry to me,” I snap. “He’s not dead.” With that, I exit the kitchen.
And I’m back to having limits with people, not just the dumb ones. Human beings need to put words to everything, and the last thing I want to hear is more words right now. I need silence and my place in purgatory where no one is allowed. Except for Kane. He has a way of filling me up when others would drain me dry.
I exit the house, pull off my gloves and booties, and toss them in a trash can the team has set-up by the door. My coat had been thrown on a hanging swing. I grab it, pull it on, and walk down the stairs. Snow begins to pelt my jacket. Already there is snow, and not the first snow, either. It was just snowing a few days ago and to me right now that means the water is cold, so damn cold, and there is no way Kane avoided that water.
My steps quicken with the idea, which is almost unbearable, and gone are my ideas of killing Pocher, at least right now. I want to be back at the airport now, right now. With that in mind, I pull up my hood, weather the snow, and clear the yellow tape. I bring Kane’s car into view and just as I reach the hood, Jay appears, all bundled up in some sort of puffy jacket.
Just the sight of him guts me.
Why is he here?
What does he know?
What will he say?
Fuck, I’m losing my mind right now. “Tell me,” I order, stepping in front of him.
“Kit wants you to go to the house and wait there. He said ‘please,’ Lilah, and you know he’s not a please kind of guy.”
“Tell him to say please when he’s trying to get a girl’s panties down, not when he’s talking to me. Wait for what?”
“Him. He said he’d meet us there in an hour.”
He’ll meet us. Not Kane. He didn’t say Kane. My knees seem to be trembling. I don’t tremble.
I inhale, holding my breath, managing a nod in Jay’s direction. That’s all I have in me right now.
“I’ll follow you home,” he says. “Unless you want a ride?”
“I’ll drive,” I say, turning away from him.
Once I’m inside the car, I crank up the heat, and as silly as it might sound, I dial Kane.
It goes to voicemail.
Kane Mendez. Leave a message.
His voice is lightly accented, his tone a mix of whiskey-rough masculinity, and arrogance. It’s a voice that says he’s in charge. The message prompt beeps and I’m the one in charge now. “You will not die,” I command. “You will come home to me. You wanted me to marry you, you damn sure will show up for the wedding. Do you understand me?” My voice is vehement and then my lashes lower with a pinch of emotion as I whisper, “Damn it, Kane, come home,” and hang up.
CHAPTER SIX
I arrive at our Hamptons home to find Kane’s men posted at the front gates. That’s not something they’d do on their own. They do it when given that direction. When given that direction by Kane, but then, I have no idea what kind of emergency protocols Kane set-up with Kit. I should, which is a problem I’ll fix immediately, but bottom line, right now I don’t. Right now, I’m swimming in a sea of the unknown and all I can do is push forward, drive forward.