The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) (7 page)

“Wait.” The moment he realizes he’s grabbed me, he abruptly releases my arm. Apparently someone doesn’t want me reading their thoughts. “Are you accusing me of finding you annoying and despising you for distracting me?”

“Really, Detective, I thought you were more intelligent.”

The intermingling scent of smoke and alcohol permeates the air around him, as if he has spent hours basking in the delight his vices have to offer, and I wonder if he’s been in his study ever since he had left Mr. Harrison’s private event. The smell
should
repel me, yet it somehow manages to do the opposite. I catch myself leaning forward, seeking the warmth of his body, when I should be moving away from him. Or possibly it’s those green eyes that always manage to undo me. Regardless of the cause, I can’t seem to escape my attraction for him, which infuriates me further.

“Is that what this is about, Moira?” His bewilderment quickly settles into exasperation, and I get a taste of my own temper mirrored back at me. “Well, allow me to clarify–”

“Please, do.”

“Yes, I find you infuriating—
excruciatingly
so,” he continues, though I have to admit it’s not exactly what I wanted to hear. “You’re outspoken and are constantly provoking me with your crude or self-deprecating statements. And then you continue to goad me by flaunting your sexuality in my face on a daily basis. When I refuse to take the bait, you get upset. And if I were to bite, I imagine you would resent me still.”

He draws closer, pitching his voice lower. “And, yes, you
are
a distraction. Because, when I should be concentrating on the case, I’m thinking of
you
instead. Does that answer any questions you may have had?”

“Yes,” I hiss, when in reality I’m more baffled than ever.

We stare silently at one another, both of us fuming and unwilling to show any sign of submission by glancing away. When he drops his head forward, I’m immediately paralyzed. My resentment dissipates, quickly replaced with wide-eyed anticipation for his next move. Despite the slight scowl marring his face, he intends to kiss me. I’m incredulous, especially since he had just spent his breath explaining in great detail the extent of his annoyance over me.

His lips are so close to mine I can already taste the alcohol on my tongue, but instead of closing the distance, he pauses a breath away from me. “You smell like
him
.”

The tone of his voice is acrimonious, so I respond in turn. “You don’t smell too good yourself.”

Our breaths mingle together in hostility as neither one of us moves, his lips still hovering an inch away from mine. A part of me wants to clutch his hair and draw him close, while the other part of me, sitting in the dark corner, insists I walk away. But my body obeys neither command, leaving me momentarily trapped beneath a spell of paralysis.

His eyes flicker away from my lips, and his voice has returned to its usual calm tone. “Do you enjoy taunting me, Moira?”

I lift my chin a little higher. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Then we should call it a night.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

When he still refuses to move an inch, I force myself to turn away and casually ascend the stairs. In reality, I want to run up the rest of the way. But I manage to remain calm enough the entire distance to my bedroom and even successfully close my door without making my frustration known. The euphoric feeling I had acquired after my time with Mr. Hayes has now vanished. The realization I have to stay here until the Phoenix is found fills me with dread. It means I’ll have to endure weeks—possibly even months—in the detective’s presence with him demanding so much but yielding so little.

I
don’t consider
myself a sadistic person, yet I’m once again standing before the legislature building about to watch someone die. A loud bell resounds through the square as the clock high up on the tower informs the citizens of Braxton that it’s noon, but the people standing around the platform that has been momentarily erected before the government building aren’t paying attention to the time. Their thoughts are solely focused on the man in chains who is staring defiantly at the mob. Several emotions swirl around me, and my head throbs from the external tension. The crowd’s full of rage, Anthony’s indignant, his strong features set into a grimace, and, combined, the emotions press upon me and make me ill.

Why did I come here? Was it to offer the condemned person comfort as I once had done for Rachel? No, this man doesn’t deserve any compassion I may have. Did I come here to stand amongst the crowd to bear witness to his death for the two women who lie buried in the cemetery—the very ones who were unfortunate enough to be his victims? It certainly feels closer to the truth. Or have I come here to see him punished for what he was about to do to me? Yes, that’s definitely a part of it as well. Still, I can’t shake the feeling there’s something more. There has to be, because surely I didn’t come here just to watch someone die.

Anthony’s pain will be brief, not enough to compensate for the agony he had imposed on Ginny, Rebekah, and their families. He won’t feel an ounce of remorse for his crimes. In fact, he resents the crowd, especially the detective and I. We are the reason he is at the mercy of a noose and will soon no longer exist, and he still refuses to account for his transgressions. I loathe everything about him, yet I can’t seem to summon my hate. I try, reaching down into the pit of my most volatile emotions in search of anger, disgust, and condemnation. Nothing. I should have come up with
something
, but all I manage to grasp is sorrow. The emotion is thick and viscous, clinging to my fingertips. Desperate, I wipe my hands on my dress in an attempt to free myself of the wretched feeling. I do
not
pity this man; I
can’t
. He’s a rapist and a murderer. If anything, he deserves to die.

The moment Anthony freefalls into the air my gloom has settled over me, and I feel as if my own body hangs at the end of a rope. Now that he’s dead, it’s possible my melancholy will dissipate. I turn to face Keenan only to find him examining me. It’s been a couple of days since I slept with Mr. Hayes, and since then, my relationship with the detective feels as if it’s about to combust. We haven’t exploded yet, but I suspect one of us will catch fire soon. I hope it’s him, because I can’t stand another minute of his perpetual mask of decorum.

“Find something you like?” Damn, it will probably be me who detonates first.

He ignores my comment. “I had expected you to revel in Anthony’s death.” His expression softens infinitesimally, but, coming from him, it’s quite the leap from his usual impassive façade. “If I’m not mistaken, it seems as if you are actually
sad
.”

“Why do you always seem to expect me to rejoice in other people’s deaths?”

I cross my arms over my chest, frustrated with myself for feeling this way and annoyed he noticed. I should distract myself—talk about anything but the melancholy weighing me down.

Instead of answering my question, he continues. “Death is not a pleasant thing for most, Moira. You shouldn’t be so critical over your response. It’s perfectly normal to feel the way you do.”

My eyes flicker to him in surprise. “Are you positive you’re not an empath?”

I see the faint imprint of his dimple before it disappears. “No, I’m merely speculating based on your expressions. I don’t think I can ever claim to fully
know
what goes on in that mind of yours.” His eyes narrow as he adds, “You certainly don’t make it easy.”

I raise a brow in challenge. “Neither do you.”

He takes the bait. “Haven’t I answered your personal questions?”

I pause, thinking over the month I’ve known him. For a while we didn’t share
anything
with one another. I was too preoccupied with thinking of ways to escape and protect myself, whereas he was busy assuming I would try to escape and kill anyone in the process. It wasn’t until he permitted me to enter his mind that we began revealing personal information. And, yes, he had answered every query I presented to him. But I, too, have given him answers—that is, except anything regarding Scott Harrison. I have my reasons, however. My servitude to the blocker had been painful and confusing, and in the end, I had killed the man.

So I suppose he has been forthright with his answers.

“Mostly,” I admit reluctantly. “But you still leave me in the dark about certain things.”

He lifts a brow. “Then you fail to ask the
right
questions. Meanwhile, you continue to evade mine.”

“Oh, is that so? Fine, go ahead and ask me anything. Come on, Detective. What is it you wish to know?”

He opens his mouth in preparation to speak, but he’s interrupted when a woman appears beside us. I have no idea what he was about to ask, and I might never know now. I’m suddenly grateful for the woman’s presence, because there’s a high chance he would have asked about Scott or Mr. Hayes, both of which I would have avoided.

The woman stares at Keenan with uncertainty, her eyes flickering up the length of him. “Detective Edwards?”

Keenan nods in polite greeting. “What can I do for you?”

The woman is short and plump, with a round blotchy face stained with tears. If the blatant sorrow marring her face isn’t evidence enough, then her black dress certainly informs me she is mourning for the loss of a loved one. Yet beneath her melancholy, I catch the distinct scent of fury. She’s lost someone in a moment of injustice, and I wonder if she’s a relative of Ginny or Rebekah. I had seen both victims, and this woman standing before me doesn’t resemble either one of them. Maybe she’s distantly related. Her gaze cuts to me with obvious antagonism, and it finally dawns on me her sorrow is for the man who was just executed.

I scoff.

She looks back at the detective, her uncertainty long gone. “I’m Mrs. Bradford. Anthony’s mother.”

Keenan nods his head respectfully. “How can I be of service, Mrs. Bradford?”

By the look in Mrs. Bradford’s eyes, I know Keenan has asked her the wrong question. Her ire pierces through her misery, and her face twists into an expression of fury. Her son has just died, and she’s looking for someone to blame. Yet I have no way of warning Keenan, so her accusation comes to him unexpectedly.

“Because of you my son is dead,” she spits at him venomously.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Anthony wasn’t responsible for killing anyone. He was a good man—a man of the law.” She steps closer, glaring accusingly at Keenan. “I’ve heard about Mr. Anderson’s death, and I know about the lies the police are telling us. If you spent less time with this whore,” she pauses to look at me deliberately before she continues. “You would have found the real killer by now and my son would still be alive.”

Keenan has—not surprisingly—remained calm during Mrs. Bradford’s allegation, and I wonder if he encounters this sort of situation often. He has undoubtedly caught his share of criminals during his ten years of service, and there’s always someone who believes in their innocence. How many people resent him for imprisoning a loved one?

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bradford,” he says cordially. “But I assure you your son was responsible for raping and killing Ginny Parker and Rebekah Gray. He was also guilty of raping several other women. I know this because the Elite’s blockers had read his mind and had found each memory.”

Her eyes widen in indignation. “Well, we’ll see about that, Mr. Edwards.”

She huffs and walks away before he can respond.

We’re quiet on the drive toward the police station, and I can just imagine that Keenan’s mind is replaying Mrs. Bradford’s words. I don’t like that she mentioned Mr. Anderson’s death or alluded to the fact the police are lying to the citizens of Braxton. Nor do I like how she blamed the detective for her son’s death, and her last words had sounded ominous. Last night’s scene flashes before me, and I hear Keenan telling me that when he should be concentrating on the case he’s thinking of me instead. I glance at him sideways, wondering if those thoughts are positive or negative ones. Does he blame me for distracting him just as Mrs. Bradford had done?

“Do you suppose she knows about the Phoenix?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“You tell me, Moira. You’re the one who’s the empath.”

“It’s not like I invade every person’s mind and read their entire life in that moment.” I think back to what I had sensed from her. “But even though she mentioned Mr. Anderson, I honestly didn’t get the impression she knows there’s an empath killing members of the Elite. She’s definitely suspicious though.”

“Yes, and someone has been talking.”

“Are you thinking of anyone in particular? Because there’s a number of people who could have let some information slip. Perhaps it’s one of the constables. A lot of them had been in denial when we caught Anthony.”

He glances at me sideways. “Actually, I had Mrs. Anderson in mind.”

“Why would she talk?”

“Because her husband was just recently killed, and her son was persuaded by an empath to kill him. She’s frightened for herself and Andrew.” He sighs before continuing. “And when people are frightened, they talk.”

“True.” I consider the side of his profile, trying to gauge his thoughts. “Regardless of what she said, I hope you don’t feel responsible. You can’t save everyone.” He doesn’t say anything in response, so I continue. “I just can’t believe that after everything she refused to acknowledge her son was guilty. I mean how can someone look at the evidence and still deny its truth?”

His voice is quiet when he responds. “People don’t want to believe those close to them are capable of such horrors.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” I snap. “Everyone’s guilty of something until proven otherwise.”

Keenan frowns. “I believe it’s the other way around, Moira. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty.”

“Not at all. People should expect the worse from others, especially those close to them. Then they won’t be hurt when someone disappoints them.” I lift my head high and look away. “It’s how I’ve survived.”

“Ah, yes, survival.”

With those words, I know he has every intention of arguing with me. I’ve come to realize it’s rare we agree on something, so I’m not surprised when he continues.

“But people don’t want to just survive. They want to live in cities, and exchange goods and services.” He parks in front of the police station and turns to face me. “Fall in love, and have children of their own. And in order to do all that they first need to trust. How can anyone live if they’re constantly expecting the people around them to lie, cheat, steal, hurt, and kill?”

My heart had actually fluttered when he said
fall in love
, especially since he chose that exact moment to turn his gaze on me. Though I understand what he is saying, I still find the idea of trusting anyone difficult. But I suppose in retrospect I’m already guilty of blindly trusting others. I’ve placed my faith in the Elite to keep their promise, and I’ve trusted Keenan enough to feel safe in his presence. Of course I still have my doubts about him, but I’m not constantly paranoid he’ll harm me. So instead of arguing further, I ask a different question.

“Are you saying you trust me?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitancy. “Whether or not you are worthy of that trust is yet to be determined.”

“Aren’t you afraid of being wrong?”

His face acquires a sombre expression, and his gaze flickers between my different coloured eyes. Finally, he says in a quiet voice I barely hear, “Of course.”

Just when I’m certain I can’t bear to be at the receiving end of that inquisitive gaze of his, he breaks eye contact and exits the motor vehicle. I hasten to follow him into the police station, his words haunting me with each step. The idea he has placed such blind faith in me disturbs me greatly, for I have never once considered other people’s expectations of me. What did I care if I disappointed Madame Del Mar or Scott Harrison? And I can’t think of a time when anyone trusted me. Perhaps Devin did once, but that time has passed.

The Chief requests our presence in his office the moment we enter the police station, so, naturally, we immediately oblige. It’s only when the burly man closes the door I realize the station is eerily quiet. Even the Chief’s face is extremely solemn, and then I remember Anthony Bradford was just hanged. Of course the constables would be especially silent on this day, even if the man had been guilty. They lost a fellow constable—a man they worked beside and trusted for many years. Where did their trust in Anthony lead them? Nowhere, except to disappointment.

The Chief sits in his chair and avoids making eye contact with either one of us. “I suppose it’s over then?”

The detective looks at him gravely. “Yes, and Mrs. Bradford spoke to me afterward.”

“Christ.”

“She refuses to believe Anthony was guilty,” continues Keenan. “It also seems as if someone is spreading word that the deaths aren’t as they appear and that someone else is responsible.”

“I don’t like the sound of that at all,” mutters the Chief. “We can’t have everyone knowing there’s an empath involved. It’s the seventh today and, so far, there hasn’t been a murder.” He finally looks up at us, his expression wary. “I think it’s safe to say the Phoenix has changed the rules of the game.”

The Chief straightens in his seat. “There’s something else. A blocker has just finished interrogating Daniel, and he’s not the one who used persuasion on Andrew.”

“I was afraid of that,” says Keenan.

I lift my head in determination. “I still think Jonathan is involved.”

The detective’s gaze falls on me and there’s a challenge in his eyes. “And did your visit provide any useful information to that theory?”

“What visit?” interjects the Chief, bewildered.