Chapter Three

 

Adam stood outside the Charleston garden home, with its double-decker piazza that ran the entire length of the house. The building had been converted into two apartments, and according to the dossier, Jessica Barnes lived in the top unit. He stared at her picture for a long moment. She was a looker—long black hair, crystal-blue eyes, deep red lips—and the probable target of a serial killer.

The same one who'd killed his sister? He'd gone over the crime scene photos of the first victim on the plane. The placement of the body, the thin slice across the neck, the crossing of her hands on the chest—they were all eerily similar to the little he knew about his sister's case. Her killer had never been caught, but that had been in New Orleans eight years ago, when he'd been deployed half a world away. He pushed down the guilt and hopelessness he'd felt ever since the day he'd gotten the call and refocused on the crime scene photo.

Other than the crossing of the hands and the thin slice across her neck, there was no reason to suspect this was the same killer. And he wouldn't have, if Mia hadn't planted the notion in his mind. Now that the suggestion was there, there was no getting it out. One thing was for certain: he wasn't going to take any chances. Nothing was going to happen to Jessica Barnes, not under his watch.

Adam climbed the outside staircase up to the top unit's front door and rang the bell.

The woman who opened the door was every bit as beautiful as her picture portrayed, and she looked every bit as haunted. She wore a long white dress, accented by a turquoise pendant hanging from her neck. The brilliant blue of the stone complemented her eyes.

"Good morning. I'm Adam LaSalle from the Phoenix Agency. You were expecting me?"

She kept her hand on the door, her eyes wary and smudged with dark circles. "Vivi told me you'd come, but I'm afraid you've wasted your time. There is nothing for you to do here."

Skittish. He gave her an easy smile. "Why don't you invite me in and we can talk about it."

She stared at him for a long moment, her gaze taking in every inch of him. He warmed under her perusal, almost as if it were her fingers moving across his skin and not her eyes. He took a deep breath to pull himself together as she opened the door and stepped aside.

Adam walked into a living room filled with oversized and inviting plush furniture. All creams and whites. He almost didn't see the white cat staring at him from the top of a chair. Its green eyes gave it away. An artist's table covered with a sheet sat in front of a row of French doors covered with thick blinds and sheer white curtains. He wondered what was under the sheet. He walked forward and checked the French doors; each one had deadbolts and thick glass. He rapped his knuckles against the glass as he glanced at the small black bistro set on the balcony complementing the wrought iron railing. Ferns hung from hooks along the expanse of the terrace, lush and vibrant green—and the only color in her life.

"Coffee?" she asked.

He turned back to her and nodded as she walked into the small kitchen in the corner of the room. A counter separated it from the living space. He sat on one of the barstools as she poured him a cup and pushed the sugar toward him.

"Cream?"

"No, thanks." He picked up the coffee and took a drink. It was strong, with a hint of chicory, just the way he liked it.

"Tell me about the paintings," he said, hoping to get her to relax. It had the opposite effect. She looked at him, her expression momentarily frozen.

He gestured toward the living room. On every wall and above the fireplace were black-and-white paintings of Charleston. "Are they your work?"

"What makes you ask that?" Her voice, low and husky, moved something within him.

He pointed to the file he'd laid on the counter. "Your dossier says you are an artist."

"I have a dossier?"

"Don't worry. There's not much there. Just the basics so I know who I'm protecting."

"Protecting? I think there's been some kind of mistake. I don't need protecting."

What was she so worried about? "How about if I just check your apartment and make sure you are secure here? My job is to make sure you're safe."

She looked upward for a moment then took a deep breath. "Fine."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. May I?" He gestured down the hall.

She nodded and lifted her hand for him to move forward. He left his coffee on the counter and walked toward the hallway. The first room was filled with artwork, canvases splattered with black ink. He tensed as he stared at them, hanging on hooks, leaning against walls, stacked one atop the other. They were all of women, all in scenes of death and terror. A chill moved through him as he stood in the doorway, looking at one canvas featuring a large, lifeless eye peeking out through strands of black hair. Splatters of blood covered her cheek and the cobblestones she lay on. It was so detailed, so…real.

So colorless.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice catching.

"My work."

He turned to look at her, unable to imagine what kind of work this was. He thought she was a painter.

"I'm an ink artist," she explained.

"Ink."

"Yes. All my paintings are done in ink."

"But they're all…"

"Death scenes. Yes."

"And you've found a market for these?"

"These aren't for sale." She turned, not sharing any more on the subject, and continued down the hall. Who was this woman? He followed her past the hall bathroom and then into the master bedroom. He checked the large window hidden behind plantation shutters. Locked. Nothing below it. Unless the killer was Spider-Man, he'd have a hard time getting into her room this way, and a quick glance into the master bathroom showed it was just as secure.

"Satisfied?" she asked.

"Yes." He turned and walked back toward the living room, still unable to shake the chill that had permeated his skin.

And then she touched him.

Her fingers, not just warm, but electric, shocked him through the fabric of his shirt. It took all he had not to pull away from her. "I'm sorry you had to see those. I know they're disturbing."

"Just doing my job," he muttered. Though he wasn't sure at this point if he wanted this job. But that was ridiculous. He didn't get shaken, not by death, not by anything.

He was fearless. Right? He almost laughed.

"Let's take our coffee onto the veranda." She opened the door to the balcony, stepped toward the bistro table, and sat. He took his cup off the counter and followed her. The air felt good, smelled good, and he instantly felt better.

He didn't know what it was about the apartment—no, about that room—that had unsettled him so much. He wasn't one to jump at shadows, but what he felt in that room was pure evil. He thought of Mia's words replaying in his mind.

"In her vision, the blood was black." Had she seen ink?

He had a new-found respect for Aunt Vivi.

"I appreciate you coming, but as you can see, we're safe here."

"We?" he asked.

"Lucy and I." She gestured toward the white cat who was winding around the opened door as she joined them on the balcony.

"Listen," he said, pulling his gaze from the cat, "there is a killer out there, and for some reason Vivi thinks you may be his next target."

"I get that. I very well may be."

"Do you know why?"

She paused for a long moment, then looked up at him. Her eyes were luminous and a touch disconcerting. He found he couldn't look away, even if he wanted to. "We seemed to have formed some sort of connection."

He stared at her, surprised. "You and the killer?"

"Yes."

"You know who he is, then?" he said quickly.

"No."

He was definitely missing something.

"I see him in my dreams and I think… I'm not sure, but I think he might see me too."

Goosebumps rose on his arms. "Either way, you can't do this alone. I'm here to protect you."

Her chin lifted and those haunting blue eyes stared at him.

"Listen," he continued after she didn't say anything, "I'm just doing my job."

"I value my privacy. I didn't ask for help."

"Maybe not, but whether you like it or not, you have it."

***

"We'll have to see about that." Jessica stepped into the kitchen and picked up her handset off the counter. She didn't like this. Not one bit. She hit the redial for Vivi's number. Like before, the phone just rang then went to voicemail. She hung up. "Vivi's not answering. I'm sorry. I understand you are just doing your job, but I'm afraid my friend, Vivi, was worried for nothing and has wasted your time."

"Not a waste," he said.

She lost herself once more in his gaze. She didn't know what it was about him, but just sitting there talking to him had her heart racing and her nerve endings on fire.

"I have a room at the hotel down the street," he said. "I'm not going to be in your way, but I can be here in a moment's notice if you need me."

She stared at his chiseled, rugged features and wanted to believe him. Wanted to just let go and lean on someone else for a change. Someone strong and capable. He was all hardness and muscle, with piercing, crystalline green eyes that studied her without wavering. She was drawn to him much more than she should be. She was just lonely, she chided herself. Maybe Vivi was right—maybe she had been cooped up in this apartment for too long.

But that was all the more reason for him to leave. Not only that, but he was unsettled, she could see that. He'd lost all his color when he'd looked into her vision room.

"So tell me about the paintings in your spare room," he said.

She stiffened. "Not much to tell."

"I know about you and Vivi. About your visions."

She looked up sharply. "Do you believe?"

"Honestly? I'm not sure. But I'm keeping an open mind."

She gave him a small smile. "Can't ask for any more than that."

"Have you always had them?" He actually looked interested.

"They came with puberty. One of life's little jokes."

He smiled. She wished he'd stop doing that. It was very distracting. "As if being a teenager wasn't hard enough."

"Exactly." She didn't know how he'd done it, but she was warming up to him. "I don't know if the visions would have come anyway, but my best friend at the time was murdered. We'd been inseparable, and on the night she died, I dreamed as if I were there, a witness to the crime, watching everything that had happened to her."

His eyes, warm with compassion, held hers. "That must have been tough."

"I thought it was a nightmare, but then they found her body the next day. Right where I knew it would be." She fiddled with her cup of lukewarm coffee.

"Were you a suspect?" he asked.

"For a minute, until they realized it had to have been someone strong who'd done it."

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you." She stared off into the distance. "They sent me to go live with my grandmother after that. We had been living in a small Southern town, and people didn't want the weird devil child who witnessed a murder playing with their kids."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, but it all worked out for the better. My grandmother knew what was happening to me. She said it ran in our family. She showed me how to get the visions out of my head."

"Your paintings?"

"Yes."

"Are they all murders?" he asked, and something dark flashed in his eyes. "The paintings in your room."

She nodded, unable to put words to the burden she carried, the images in her head, the terror in her heart.

"And the police?"

"I don't call them anymore."

"Not ever?"

"Nope. And this time will be no exception." She gave up on her coffee and pushed it away from her.

"Not even if you could help?" he asked.

"They wouldn't believe me anyway. At best, all they'd do is disrupt my life."

"And at worst?"

"They'd throw me in jail." She wouldn't go through that again, having everyone stare at the freak who saw things. Having to pack up her life and move. She liked Charleston. She liked her life.

"I'm sorry."

He pitied her. "Don't be," she said. "I've learned to live with it."

"I can see that."

She wanted to yell at him, to tell him to stop being so understanding, so handsome. To stop smiling at her. The doorbell rang. She scowled as she rose to answer it.

"Not used to visitors?" he asked.

"No. And certainly not two in one day."

"Why don't you let me get that?"

She was about to say no, then changed her mind and shrugged. "Why not." She followed him to the door and hung back as he answered it.

Two men in suits stood on her stoop. "Ms. Barnes?" one of them asked.

"Yes."

"We're detectives McCloskey and Kent from the Charleston Police Department. May we come in?"

Did she have a choice?

"What's this about?" Adam asked.

One of the cops held up a cropped picture of a hastily drawn symbol—her logo. She recognized it easily. The woman, the forehead, and the symbol. "Do you know what this is?" the detective asked.

"Yes, it's the logo that I use to sign my art."

"We're going to need you to come downtown," he said, his eyes hard.

She wanted to protest. To demand why. To put up a fuss, but in the end, she just nodded. "This is Adam LaSalle. He'll be coming with us. Anything you have to say to me, you will say to him."

"Husband?" one of the officers asked.

"Bodyguard."