A Deadly Reunion Page 6

“I didn’t get a chance to catch up with you at the reunion. Oh my god, how have you been?” She leaned back, but tapped her hand on his chest as she spoke.

  It was an intimate move. And no doubt, considering how close she was, the sound of that nasal high-pitched voice would be shaking up and down his bones. Not to mention the scent of that perfume. I’d copped a whiff of it when I’d gone into reception to hand back my keys, and it had hung in the air like a cloying shadow.

  Though Nancy continued to smile at Denver as if they were long-lost lovers finally reunited, he now managed to take a step back. He neatened his shirt, pulled down tightly on his cuffs, and cleared his throat.

  Was it just me, or did he look uncomfortable? Not just awkward, not just irritated that Nancy had thrown herself around him with no warning, but exceedingly put out.

  “Your brother said you’re now an FBI agent,” Nancy said, her voice dripping with obvious enthusiasm. “Oh my god, that’s so amazing. Do you have a gun?”

  I couldn’t help it – I had to snigger at that. Did he have a gun? What kind of question was that?

  The answer was a sultry, flirtatious one. Because on the word gun, Nancy let her gaze drop, and while I couldn’t see what she was looking at, I doubted it was the side of Denver’s hip.

  Though I ensured that my snigger was quiet, Denver turned his head sharply and stared my way.

  As he did, Nancy appeared to realize I was standing there, and she turned to face me. “So you decided not to leave after all. That’s very brave of you.” She smiled around her words, but there was no way she was being nice.

  “No, not brave, I just found something to stay for,” I answered sharply, manhandling my bag and suitcase as I shoved the door open.

  “Oh, you mean that award they’re going to give you at the reunion for becoming the most successful graduate of our class?” Nancy continued.

  I stared at her darkly.

  “That is, if you measure success by riches. I, myself,” Nancy patted a hand on her chest, and it made her cleavage wobble, likely on purpose, “think that happiness, strong family ties, and the perfect relationship,” she sliced her gaze towards Denver, “are what really matter in life.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Latching a hand on the door, I took a step into my room. Pausing to turn back to face her, I shot my gaze between the two of them briefly. “But I would add morals and decency to the equation.” With that, I shut the door. Okay, I kind of slammed it. But what the hell – the motel already had my credit card details, and if I damaged the wood or the paintwork, they could just charge me.

  Dumping my bag on the bed, I shot my windows a baleful look. Fortunately the blinds were drawn, so I didn’t have to put up with the view of Nancy wobbling around in her heels.

  Realizing there was no earthly reason I should be allowing her to get to me – considering I wasn’t in goddamn high school any more – I made my way over to the bar fridge, rummaged around in it, and then promptly closed it when I found nothing edible.

  Grumbling to myself, I decided a shower was in order, and I kicked off my shoes and clothes, and headed into the bathroom.

  I clambered into the shower, turned the water onto full, planted my hands onto the tiled wall, and closed my eyes.

  I liked to think I didn’t lead a complicated life. In fact, one of the secrets to a good relationship was to avoid complex people and situations like the Plague.

  Well right now, I wasn’t living by my own rules. The smart thing to do was to leave. Okay, the fun thing to do was to stay until I’d had some Vietnamese with Thorne Scott, but to stay in Wetlake any longer was stupid. For the love of god, there had been a murder at my school reunion, and even if Annabelle was mad enough to continue with the events planned for the weekend, it wasn’t decent; it wasn’t right.

  Feeling exceedingly conflicted, I eventually finished my shower. Reaching over to the basin for the white fluffy towel sitting there, I began to dry myself.

  I promptly stopped.

  I stopped and I gave a scream.

  There wasn’t a man in the bathroom with a knife getting ready to stab me, Psycho style. There wasn’t an enormous spider, there wasn’t a bear, there wasn’t a tiger – there was nothing you would classically find frightening.

  What there was, was a postcard.

  Sitting on the top of the cistern of the toilet.

  I recognized it immediately because it depicted me.

  It was a photo of the exact moment when I had lost my pants at the football game.

  It was just sitting there, and I was entirely certain that it hadn’t been there before I’d jumped into the shower.

  “Jesus,” I said sharply.

  I got out of the shower. It was an awkward affair. It was one of those built-in showerheads over a bath, but half the side had a frosted glass pane. Planting my hand on the edge of the pane, I clambered out.

  I stood there, huddled in the towel, too frightened to walk out into the main part of the room.

  Then someone knocked on the door.

  I jumped and gave another scream.

  “Patti? Patti? Are you okay?”

  Denver.

  Shit, it was Denver.

  I was still soldered to the spot, but when he continued to knock, I finally found the courage to take several steps forward and beyond the door of the bathroom. With the tensest moves I had ever made, I surveyed my room.

  It was empty, apart from the bed, my luggage, and my car keys.

  “Patti?”

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I said, relief rippling through my tone.

  “You screamed. What’s happening in there?”

  I walked over to the door.

  I was in a towel, and my sopping-wet hair trailed over my neck and shoulders, but that didn’t stop me.

  Because I wasn’t one of those dumb girls who didn’t reach out for help when they needed it, I opened the door. Sure, there was nobody in my room, but there was a freaking postcard of me on the top of my toilet, and it hadn’t been there before I’d jumped in the shower.

  Something was going on. Even though I couldn’t say I liked the guy, Denver was a Federal Agent, and Nancy would be very right – he would most certainly have a gun.

  Opening the door a crack at first, I used my free hand to fix the towel tightly against my chest.

  Denver ducked to the side, staring at me immediately. “What happened?”

  Ensuring the towel was as tight and secure as it could be, I took a step back and let him walk in. I didn’t invite him to walk in, but I knew enough about Denver to realize that wouldn’t matter. Sure enough, he planted a hand on the door and marched in as if he owned the place. With darting moves, he surveyed the area, and then turned and looked right at me. Despite the fact I was standing there dripping in a wet towel, he did not let his gaze linger. “What happened?”

  “A postcard,” I answered.

  His once worried expression crumpled. “What do you mean? Did you just scream for no reason?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a jerk?” I snapped back.

  I walked behind him and closed the door, not wanting this conversation to carry, and certainly not wanting Nancy to pop her head in.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” he demanded.

  Gritting my teeth, I stalked back into the bathroom. Though I had been nothing but frightened several moments before, now I was feeling irritated again, and at least it gave me the courage to head back into the bathroom on my own. Once I’d made it inside, I was met with that same view – that postcard of me sitting on the cistern.

  Without an invite, Denver followed me in.

  I pointed at the cistern. “When I got in the shower, there was nothing in this bathroom. When I got out of the shower, that was there.”

  He swiveled his gaze to me, and as his eyebrows crumbled together, I could see he didn’t believe me.

  I crossed my arms tighter in front of my chest defensively. “Do you think I
would lie about something like this?”

  “I don’t think you would lie about anything, Patti Smith, because you are painfully and belligerently direct,” he snapped as he walked past me and straight over to my toilet. He plucked up the card, but he did so gently, and he used only the tips of two fingers to pick it up by the corner.

  He turned it around, thankfully not allowing his gaze to linger on that rather disastrous photo of me without any goddamn pants on.

  His lips flattened, and then he frowned.

  “What? What’s written on the back?” I took a sharp breath.

  Denver didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back to the toilet, and his gaze automatically flicked up to the perpetually open window above it.

  “Denver, what does it say on the back?”

  Again he ignored me, and instead he took a step towards the toilet and kicked it with his shoe. When it didn’t break apart into one million pieces, he knocked the back of his knuckles onto the lid. Clearly deciding it was sturdy enough for his weight, he clambered on top. Placing a hand on the windowsill, he bent his head forward and looked down and out.

  “Shit, what’s going on here?” I crammed my thumb into my teeth and began to bite the nail harshly. I had once been a terrible nail biter, but then I’d jolly well grown up. There was something about this weekend, however, that was sending me spiraling backwards.

  After a moment, Denver finally jumped down. Wordlessly, he handed me the postcard.

  I turned it over.

  My stomach sank.

  On the back was a picture of me pulled from my yearbook. I had frizzy hair, braces, and bleary, red eyes. I looked like a cross between a drug addict and a robot.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t all that was on the back. There was a message that had been cut out of some kind of magazine or newspaper. It read: the most successful graduate of Wetlake High?

  Wow.

  Just wow.

  I didn’t know what to do with the postcard, so I let it drop to the floor.

  Immediately Denver turned around, sunk to his knees, and grabbed it up. He was close enough to my legs that I jumped back at the suddenness of his move. “Don’t get excited,” he grumbled, “and don’t get this wet.”

  “What... what is it?” I managed.

  “It’s a postcard of you without any pants on, and one with a suspiciously threatening message on the back. Something that you claim was placed in your room while you were in the shower.”

  That was one hell of a summary. It sent shivers racing up and down my back, and they sure as hell weren’t pleasant. They felt like claws grating their way into the skin and bone.

  “Threat?” I grabbed onto that one word. “What do you mean by threat?”

  “I don’t know what I mean. But considering what just happened in this town, I think maybe it’s time to call the police.”

  I hadn’t been expecting that, and it was like a punch to the gut.

  “Police?”

  “Dry yourself and put some clothes on.” Denver walked past me, grabbed the door, and went to close it.

  I took a jerky step forward. Grabbing the edge of the door, I stopped it in place. “What do you mean police, Denver? And what do you mean threat? What’s going on here? I’m sure it’s just... somebody fooling around.”

  “And if it isn’t?” he asked coldly.

  Damn... I could have fallen over at that.

  If the card was threatening, then Denver’s reaction to it was only driving home how serious it could be.

  While I hadn’t enjoyed high school, I’d lived a fairly sheltered life. I’d never been the victim of any kind of violent crime, and I’d certainly never been threatened before.

  I had no idea how to deal with this.

  “Considering what’s going on in this town, it’s best that we take this seriously.” He looked directly at me as he spoke, and he had a calm edge of authority to his voice that felt something like an anchor I could hold onto.

  He clearly knew what he was doing.

  “But—” I began.

  “Dry yourself off, get dressed, and we’ll head down to the police station. We’ll report this. It might be nothing, but we’ll take it seriously for now.”

  “But... it’s just a postcard.”

  Denver brought it up, and he pointed at the picture from my yearbook. It had little holes in it, as if it had been pinned on a board. It was a detail I hadn’t noticed before because I’d obviously been too busy freaking out.

  “What is it?”

  “You know those blue pins you keep finding?”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Well... they may be important to the investigation,” he said casually.

  “May be important to the investigation? Denver, what are you talking about?”

  “Fine. I probably shouldn’t be sharing this detail with you, but considering what just happened, you’re going to be told anyway. Plus, it’s not as if anyone can keep a secret in this town. After the murder of James Wood, the school was searched. A pin board was found. All the notices had been taken down, and a picture of James Wood had been pinned up using a blue pin exactly like the ones you’ve been finding. Underneath it somebody had pinned up an excerpt from Time magazine.”

  “Time Magazine?”

  “Believe it or not, James was a software developer. He recently wrote some kind of fancy app, and sold it for millions.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t know that.” I swallowed.

  “Hardly anyone did.” Denver stopped briefly and shifted his jaw around. “But that’s not the point. The blue pins are. And this,” he tapped the pinhole in my yearbook photo, “and this,” he pointed to the cut-out-newsletter message, “are.”

  I let go of the door and my hand fell against my side.

  Without thinking, I also let go of the towel, and it promptly fell from around me.

  Rather than stand there and cop an eyeful, Denver turned around sharply. He closed the door gently and reminded me again to get dry and get dressed.

  Well I didn’t, or not immediately. I simply stood there in the middle of the room until I crumpled down into a seated position next to the bath. With my back pressed hard into the ceramic and tile, I rocked back and forth with my hands and arms held tight around my knees and ankles.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Had someone just threatened to kill me?

  Chapter 8

  It took me a long time to get myself together enough to dry and dress, and I only did so after Denver prompted me repeatedly. By the time I opened the bathroom door a crack, it was to the sight of him sitting neatly on the edge of my bed. No doubt he had already gone through every inch of the room, searching for every clue he could or just snooping through my personal stuff. And no doubt he had a ton of questions to ask me.

  Fortunately, he didn’t face me with a barrage as I padded softly across the cheap carpet and came to a stop about a meter before him. I stared at him wordlessly for almost half a minute before he stood up and nodded towards the front door. “Don’t worry,” he said simply.

  I had one trillion trite and sarcastic responses to that, but I was hardly in a trite and sarcastic mood. If Denver was right, then it was highly likely someone had just threatened to kill me. If I didn’t act sensibly and get myself to a safe place soon, I would be the next dead body in the rose bushes.

  As that cold and dreadful thought settled in like a blizzard from above, I gave a violent shudder.

  Denver walked over to my suitcase, opened it up, rummaged around inside, and pulled out a jacket.

  He didn’t ask me whether he could look through my stuff, and neither did he politely inquire as to whether I was actually cold. He just handed me the jacket and nodded at me to put it on.

  He really was a jerk, I concluded with a small huff. Yet as strange as it sounded, I wouldn’t have anyone else by my side right now. Even though I’d barely known him for two days, he seemed like a dependable kind of jerk, and at least that was something.r />
  He led me out of my motel room, securing the postcard carefully with two fingers as he walked out over the porch and towards his car.

  I faltered behind him. “Why are we going in your car?

  “Because I’m driving.”

  “Why are you driving?”

  He stopped and turned slowly. “Stop with all the questions. Get in the car, and we’ll go to the police station.”

  Stop with all the questions? Seriously, had he just said that?

  Though I wanted to close the distance between us and rap him on the top of the head with my knuckles, I restrained myself. Instead, I silently got into the passenger side of his rather humble vehicle and wordlessly put my belt on. And there I sat with my ankles locked and my handbag on my lap, my white-knuckled grip holding it tight against my belly. I didn’t think Denver was going to steal the bag or anything; I just needed something to hold onto right now.

  I had a very steady and dependable life. While I didn’t have a long-term man in it right now, I was working on that. Plus, I was happy being single, for the time being anyway.

  Yet right now, all that happiness and steadiness had been thrown out the window.

  Someone had made a threat against my life, and I was in an FBI Agent’s car about to be taken to East Lake Police Station.

  As Thorne had already confirmed this morning, the police of this district weren’t used to dealing with actual crimes. Lost tourists? Yes. The occasional emergency when a fire broke out in the mountains? Of course. But corpses in the rose bushes and threats on your toilet cistern? Hell no.

  If they weren’t used to dealing with serious crime, how quick would their response be and how efficient? Would I be whisked away somewhere safe? Would they get me out of town? Would they hunt down the murderer with practiced efficiency? Would they solve this all in the blink of an eye before anyone else could get hurt?

  As I sat there listening to the tires crunch over the gravel, my grip around my bag became tighter and tighter. My fingers pushed hard into the leather, bending my nails back and threatening to break them.

  I didn’t care though.

  My thoughts were getting the better of me.

  I would have to change my whole life, wouldn’t I? If there were somebody out there who wanted to kill me – and the police of this district weren’t quick enough to catch them – I would always have a shadow hanging over my shoulder.