When the Smoke Clears (Deadly Reunions) (4 page)

Hunter gave a nonchalant shrug. On the inside his gut churned. Was Chad going to go peacefully this time or would it be a struggle? “Whatever. You ready to go?”

Chad gave a dramatic sigh and dropped a twenty on the bar in front of him. “Fine. I have a headache anyway.”

“You think you have one now, wait until morning,” Hunter muttered as he led the young man from the bar.

Chad stumbled along beside him as Hunter kept a firm grip on his brother’s upper arm. “Why do you keep doing this, Chad? You ought to realize by now this isn’t going to make things any better.”

Hunter got him into the front seat and belted in. He shut the door, rounded the car, and settled himself behind the wheel.

“She left me, Hunt,” Chad whined. “She left me and won’t forgive me. And she won’t let me see Shorty.”

Hunter blew out a sigh and clapped his brother on his shoulder. “I know, man. I know.” Shorty was Chad’s six-year-old daughter, Michelle.

“I’m gonna find me someone else.” Chad sniffed and tried to punch a determined fist into his opposite palm. Instead, he managed to hit Hunter’s elbow. “Someone who’ll love me. You know? Someone who won’t leave me and take my kid. And break my heart. She’s mean and unfair and I hate her, man.” He choked on a sob. “But I’m gonna find someone else. I am. Someone sweet and gentle and kind and . . .”

“Yeah, you will, Chad. As soon as you get over Stephanie.” And sober up.

But Chad didn’t hear him. A light snore drifted toward him. Raising his eyes heavenward, Hunter offered a prayer for his hurting sibling.

6

Monday, 6:24 p.m.

Alexia sat in her car and took a deep breath. She looked in the rearview mirror. An eerie glow reflected off the empty street, the setting sun casting an orange halo around the houses at her back. In less than an hour, it would be dark. Already the sun dipped in the west, causing a dusky hue to cover the area.

Shadows shifted, and memories surfaced.

Why was she here? What was she doing?

Ignoring the cramping in her stomach, she looked again at the white house with the black shutters.

She was home. For the first time in ten years.

She paused a moment to examine how she was feeling. And decided she felt . . . okay. Except for the part of her that felt guilty for not going straight to the hospital to check on her mother. Anxiety and fear mingled, twisting inside her, but she would get it under control. She had everything under control. She wheeled the Toyota 4Runner into the drive and shut off the engine.

The house looked dreary. Dead. Creepy.

Did she want to stay here?
Could
she stay here?

Memories flowed. Heavy clenched fists. Flesh striking flesh. Painful screams. Flames. Unbearable heat. Then the suffocating darkness.

She winced. Blinked back sudden unexpected tears. She would not cry.

Alexia shook her head. What was she doing? Her mother was in the hospital, and according to Serena, Alexia’s father had divorced her mother and left home two years after her high school graduation. No one had heard from him since.

It was only a year ago that her mother had started calling her on a regular basis.

Whatever.

At least he wasn’t here and couldn’t hurt her anymore.

She had no reason to feel fear. No reason to feel antsy about entering her childhood home. Her worst nightmare was gone. Hopefully he was dead.

The thought made her feel like the worst sinner ever.

But her father had caused her more than one sleepless night. She’d lost track of how many times she’d wakened in a sweat, dreaming he was after her. His threat rang in her ears long after she climbed from her bed to rinse her face and catch her breath.

“I’ll kill you one day,” he’d promised. “You’re too sassy for your own good, girlie. Cross me one more time and you’ll regret it.”

Well, she’d certainly crossed him one more time.

And he was right. She regretted it every day of her life.

Alexia climbed out of the car, shut the door, and made her way to the front porch. Fingers gripped the key she’d never thrown away. Absently, she wondered if it would still work.

“Only one way to find out, Lex.”

She slid it in the lock and twisted. The door opened, and as the sky darkened even more, Alexia stepped inside her childhood home.

Memories besieged her from all sides.

The flames reached for the ceiling as though to embrace it in a dance. Only instead of holding it gently, the fire consumed everything it touched.

“Alexia! Alexia! Where are you?”

The screams echoed through her. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t believe what was happening. What they’d told her she’d done.

A sudden thump from downstairs brought Alexia back with a start, and she gasped. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. Somewhere in the house, the floor creaked. Alexia froze, blood pounding in her temples; caution stiffened her spine. She knew that sound. It was the fourth step from the top of the basement stairs. Even with the fire and subsequent rebuilding of the house, the basement had been spared.

Including the step that squeaked when a foot landed on it.

She bit her lip and stepped back. Run or investigate?

Who would be in her mother’s house? There were no cars in the drive. No lights on. Nothing to indicate someone should be here.

Her eyes darted. Everything looked different—yet the same. If she hadn’t known a fire had done significant damage to the house a dozen years ago, she’d believe it had always looked this way.

To her left were the stairs leading up to the second floor. Straight ahead, she could see through to the kitchen sink. A pile of dishes peeked over the edge of the stainless steel. A mug looked forlorn all alone on the counter.

Alexia frowned and stepped back once more. Her mother was a neat freak. There was no way she would have let the dishes pile up like that. A glance to her right showed the empty living area. It looked just like it had ten years ago, only with different furniture. Nicer furniture.

But it was still empty. Soulless. She felt her lip curl. Some things never changed.

Alexia moved forward, her white tennis shoes silent on the floor. Maybe she’d been mistaken about the noise she’d heard. It was an old house. Old houses creaked and moaned.

Right?

Ten seconds passed. Fifteen. Then twenty.

When she heard nothing else, her pulse slowed.

Her mother was ill. She probably hadn’t felt like doing the dishes. Passing the half bath tucked neatly under the steps, Alexia entered the kitchen and pulled in a deep breath. Then her thoughts scattered as another footfall sounded.

Again, she froze as her adrenaline tripped into overdrive and her throat tightened. Someone was in the house and it was
not
her imagination. “Who’s there?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to slap herself.

She was an idiot. She’d just let someone know she was here.

Silence echoed for a moment, then she heard another step. And another. Until the footsteps ran together, fading away as they reached the bottom of the wooden basement steps.

Gathering her wits—and her courage—Alexia dashed back down the hall, to the front porch steps, and around the side of the house.

Just in time to see a dark-clothed figure dart from the basement door, right hand clenched around a glinting object.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

The fleeing intruder froze, turned.

Alexia gasped as the black-masked person took one step toward her. And thanks to a gleam of light, she finally registered what he held in his right hand.

A knife.

Dark liquid flashed on the blade. Blood?

She glanced around. All alone.

With someone who’d just been inside her mother’s house.

Someone who was heading straight for her, knife in one hand and . . . something in the other.

Breaking out of her frozen state, Alexia instantly realized her stupidity in giving chase. Heart pounding, she backpedaled, spun on her heel, and snagged her Blackberry from her pocket. “I’m calling the cops,” she yelled over her shoulder.

Pounding footsteps echoed behind her. She raced for the front door as a car pulled into the driveway across the street.

Panting, she looked back as her feet hit the front steps and saw her pursuer pause under the next-door neighbor’s motion light, masked head swiveling between Alexia and the woman getting out of her car. With one last threatening look, the person turned and disappeared into the surrounding darkness.

“Hello? 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

She realized she hadn’t answered the operator. “12 Lockwood Lane,” she breathed. “Someone was in my house. He just ran out of my basement. He has a knife.”

“Are you in a safe area?”

Alexia looked around. Was she? “Well,” she cleared her throat and ordered her pulse to slow down, “he’s gone, so I suppose I’m pretty safe at this point.”

A glance across the drive showed the woman who’d arrived at just the right time had gone into her house, unaware of the drama playing out across the street. “Yes, I think I’m safe.”

Just saying the words calmed her.

“I’m dispatching a unit. Please stay on the line with me.”

The operator’s voice faded as Alexia walked back to the house. Once again, she stood on the threshold, wondering if she should wait on the police.

A stirring of anger swirled within. Her jaw tightened. Who felt like he had the right to just violate someone else’s space like that?

She flashed to the incident that nearly took her life. Someone had messed with her air tank. Now someone was messing with her mother’s house.

The anger built—and built. She
refused
to be a victim again. She stepped into the house and made her way into the kitchen.

“Ma’am, are you there?” The 9-1-1 operator. Alexia had forgotten about her.

“I’m here.”

She looked around for a weapon. Nothing. A can of wasp and hornet spray sat on the counter.

That would do.

Ignoring the shouting of her common sense and clutching the can of spray, she headed straight for the basement door. She yanked it open and stepped down the first three steps, automatically skipping the squeaky fourth one, and arrived at the bottom.

What had the intruder been looking for? Her fingers found the light switch and she flipped it.

Brightness bathed the area. The door that led to the outside yard stood open. She paused and pressed a hand to her stomach, reason bullying its way to the surface of her mind. What if he came back?

Dodging the accumulation of junk blocking her path, Alexia cautiously made her way to the door to look out. Darkness, broken by the bright light over the door, greeted her.

Her nerves tingled, the hair on her neck stood at attention. What if he hadn’t been alone?

Was there someone down there even now? Watching her? She whirled to face the basement.

Her breathing quickened, her adrenaline rushed as she realized she was framed quite nicely in the doorway with the light on. She stepped to the side behind a large box, looked down . . .

. . . and screamed.

7

Monday, 6:40 p.m.

Hunter pulled behind the nearest cruiser and got out of the vehicle. His partner, Katie Isaacs, followed. Chad was still sleeping it off in the front seat.

Keeping a lid on his emotions, Hunter took in the scene. Four police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck.

And every available neighbor who happened to be home during all the commotion. Well, good. Maybe someone saw something.

Approaching the officer in charge, Hunter asked, “What do we have, Simon?”

“A dead body.”

“Great.” Hunter sighed and couldn’t ignore the twinge of sadness he felt every time he walked into a situation like this. Even after years of working homicide, a dead person was never just another day on the job. It was a person with a soul. Someone he might have been friends with in another time and place. “Where?”

“In the basement. We’re waiting on the medical examiner to get here.”

“Serena Hopkins?”

“Yep. She’s on her way.”

Hunter felt a flash of satisfaction. Even in high school he knew Serena was smart. And now she was back, one of the best in the business. The best that he’d worked with, anyway. She’d moved back from Spartanburg, South Carolina, a year ago on personal business and accepted the offer of Chief Medical Examiner without hesitation.

Katie asked, “How do we get to the basement?”

“That way, through the kitchen.” Simon waved to a young officer and the man trotted over. “The photographer is down there now. Officer Mays here was first on the scene. As soon as the photographer is done, show these detectives where the body is. Y’all don’t touch anything ’til Serena gets here, please.”

Officer Mays nodded. “The basement door was open when she found the body.”

“She?”

The young officer consulted his notes. “Alexia Allen.”

Hunter’s lungs suddenly lacked air. Alexia Allen? Home? He stared at the officer. “Are you sure you got her name right?”

“He got it right.”

The voice from his past echoed through his brain.

So, she’d finally come home.

Memories flooded his mind and he paused a moment to get his bearings. Then he turned to see her standing at the top of the stairs leading from the basement. She had the same red hair and flashing green eyes. He said the first thing that came to his befuddled mind.

“You’ve got blood on your hands.”

“I-I’m a first responder,” she stammered, then bit her lip. Her jaw firmed. “I didn’t have any gloves . . . I just . . . I did my best to see if I could stop the bleeding and revive him.” Regret flashed across her face. “I couldn’t.”

His eyes dropped to her hands. They were shaking, but she was holding herself together, her expression flat, impassive. She’d also contaminated the crime scene, but he’d deal with that later. The victim always came first. “How’d he die?”