Her hand met nothing but cold sheets, and her eyes opened of their own volition. “Cole?” she called, her voice carrying in the silent house.

“Cole?” she tried again as she sat up, but he still didn’t answer.

She tried to reassure herself that he was merely downstairs making coffee, that he hadn’t given her the best night of her life and then snuck out of his own house before—she glanced at the clock on the bedside table—eight o’clock in the morning. But the house was too still, too lifeless around her.

He had left.

Genevieve sighed as her hopes of a quickie before work faded—along with the loose, relaxed feeling she’d awoken with. Climbing out of bed, she saw her clothes and shoes stacked neatly on the chair by the door.

Here’s your hat; what’s your hurry? she thought sardonically as she crossed the room on legs that were much shakier than she would have liked. Or was this more Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out?

Definitely the latter, she decided, as she grabbed her clothes with angry hands. He was the one who’d insisted they come back to his place; if he’d wanted to do a disappearing act in the morning, he should have let her take him home instead.

But could she really blame him, she wondered, as she sank into the chair, her legs shaking so badly that they wouldn’t support her. She had picked him up in a bar—had behaved like the quintessential one-night stand. Was it his fault he’d given her the best sex of her life—by an amazing margin? Of course not, any more than it was his fault that she suddenly wanted to stick around for more.

Too bad he hadn’t felt the same way.

Her gaze wandered to the bathroom, and she wondered if she dared take a shower before she let herself out. Maybe she should just get dressed and head home.…

Her gaze dropped to the torn underwear and shirt in her hands—it would be a miracle if she made it home without her clothes falling off. Cole had really done a number on them the night before, and the idea of wearing them again—especially without a shower—just didn’t appeal.

A hot shower was the least he owed her, she decided, as she put the clothes aside and headed into the bathroom. After all, he had ripped more than two hundred dollars’ worth of clothing the night before. The fact that she’d enjoyed every second of it was of absolutely no consequence.

It wasn’t until she was in the bathroom, shower running, that she glanced at the bathroom vanity and saw the note he’d left between the two sinks.

I had an appointment I couldn’t miss this morning, but please stick around. I won’t be long. I hope you’re still in bed when I get back, but if you’re not, feel free to take a shower and start a pot of coffee. I’ll be back soon—with breakfast.

Genevieve reread the note three times, a goofy smile on her lips that she couldn’t seem to shake off. He hadn’t walked out on her—he’d merely gone to get something for them to eat. Her stomach growled at the thought, reminding her of just how many calories she’d expended the night before.

But even hunger couldn’t wipe out the rosy glow that surrounded her. It seemed her first one-night stand was working out better than she could possibly have imagined.

After a quick shower, Genevieve slipped into her work pants sans her torn underwear. The button was missing to the pants, but at least the zipper still worked—though she had no idea how it had survived Cole’s brutal handling. Her shirt, however, was another matter—if she tried to wear it home, she was asking for an indecency charge.

After debating with herself for a minute or two, she finally decided Cole wouldn’t mind if she borrowed a T-shirt—especially if she washed it and got it back to him in the next couple of days.

Crossing to his dresser, she opened and closed three drawers in quick succession and found underwear, sweatpants and socks, but no T-shirts. She finally struck pay dirt when she turned to his closet, and couldn’t help smiling at the neatly folded stack of black T-shirts of all different types and logos. There was one to fit every mood and occasion.

Tugging a shirt randomly from the bottom of the pile, she stepped back, startled, as a large manila folder came with it.

A paper clip from the file had gotten snagged on one of the shirt’s arms, and as she pulled them apart, the contents of the file slipped onto the floor.

Cursing, she dropped to her knees and began to pick up the documents and pictures, trying to clean up the mess as quickly as possible. It would be just her luck for Cole to return home to find her apparently riffling through his personal effects. But as she shuffled a group of newspaper clippings together, she froze. Her eyes caught on one of the papers—her name was at the top of the page.

The clipping was over five years old, and showed her receiving an award for valor. She’d still been in uniform then, and more than a little uncomfortable receiving an award she hadn’t felt she deserved. She hadn’t done anything extraordinary, except to live through the nightmare that had killed her partner and three other cops, but her sergeant had disagreed. Had instead paraded her in front of God and everyone like a puppet on a string.

Anger burned in her gut, and she was shocked to realize it still grated even after all these years.

But what was Cole doing with the picture? She began sorting through the clippings. What was he doing with all these pictures of her and other NOPD homicide detectives? Of—her stomach began to churn—photos of homicide scenes that were months and years old?

With an unsteady breath, Genevieve forced herself to look through the entire file when what she really wanted to do was to shove everything back in and forget she’d ever seen any of it.

But she couldn’t do that, she acknowledged as she riffled through the rest of the papers. As she came across a second picture of herself and then a third, her entire body began to shake so badly that she could barely hold the photos.

What kind of game was he playing?

What did he want with this information?

What did he want with her?

Panic welled within her as she continued to sift through the papers. There was a ton of research here—and all of it had to do with murder. Clippings of numerous sexual murders that had taken place in the last few years—including the two from earlier this year, open cases that Genevieve was still working.

The two murders she was sure were connected to the one she’d been called in on yesterday morning. The serial killings Chastian didn’t want to believe in.

Doubts crowded her mind as she relived every second she’d spent with Cole since he’d sat down next to her at the bar last night. Had he planned the whole thing? she wondered as she continued to sift through the damning evidence. Could he have intended for this to happen all along?

She tried to reject the idea; she was the one who had spoken to him first. She was the one who had propositioned him. Surely, if he was the serial killer she was looking for, he wouldn’t have been bold enough to accept her invitation.

She stopped at photos of the DuFray crime scene, her blood running cold at the familiar images. Lorelei DuFray had been a teacher—young, pretty, sweet. But by the time her killer had done with her, they had to use dental records to identify her.

Genevieve winced as she traced a finger over one particularly brutal photo. The crime photographer had managed to catch the body so that every jagged slash and tear was visible.

Shaking her head, she shoved the photo to the bottom of the pile, unable to bear the reminder of her failure for one more second. She’d opened this case three months before and had spent weeks working relentlessly as she’d tried to pin down the perp—all to no avail.

About six weeks later, another body had shown up—the cause of death strangulation instead of exsanguination, but to Genevieve’s experienced eye, the murder had the same killer’s sick and twisted stamp all over it.

The same way it had been all over the case she’d caught yesterday. Of course, she hadn’t been able to do much investigating yet outside of the crime scene and the neighborhood the body had been found in. The girl’s fingerprints hadn’t popped, so even after hours of canvassing the area, they had no idea who she was.

Could Cole have done these terrible things? She closed her eyes, but still the pictures of Lorelei DuFray continued to haunt her. Had she unwittingly let a murderer into bed with her last night?

Had she let a twisted sexual predator inside of her?

Nausea had her stomach cramping, even as everything inside her rejected the notion that Cole could have done these things. He’d been so careful not to hurt her last night, had pushed her to the edge of her control but had never taken her past the point of comfort.

But then, she hadn’t protested anything that he’d done either. If she had, would he have stopped? Last night, she would have said absolutely. But now—she glanced down at the incriminating file. Now all she could think was, What if she’d been wrong?

Sickness churned in her belly, beating at her brain and heart and lungs until all she could think of was escape. Cole would be back soon and she couldn’t face him—not now. Not before she knew who he was and what he wanted.

Glancing around for something that would carry his prints, Genevieve settled on a couple of discarded condom wrappers and the glass he’d left by the bedside last night, after he’d gone to the kitchen for some water. After yanking an extra evidence bag out of her purse, she used the sheet to gingerly pick up the items and slide them into the bag.

Then, desperate to get out of there before Cole made it home, she shoved the file back where she’d found it and yanked the all but forgotten T-shirt over her head. Grabbing her purse and shoes, she ran for the door.

* * *

Cole walked away from the small, broken-down house on Magazine with rage in his gut and cold fear in his heart. The interview hadn’t gone as he’d planned; the woman had been so dried up and emotionally closed off that he’d barely learned anything from her.

Her daughter had been murdered seven years before, presumably by the same sick f**k who had killed his sister. But unlike Cole, this woman had put her faith in the police—and had lost a little bit more of her soul each day that her daughter’s murderer remained on the street.

With a muttered oath, he glanced at his watch. This had taken longer than he’d thought, and Genevieve had probably woken up—alone. It wasn’t what he’d planned for their first morning after. He should have gone with his instincts and canceled the appointment with Mrs. Harlow, but it had been so hard to get her to agree to see him that he hadn’t wanted to do anything to spook her.

Now he was the one who was spooked—the utter hopelessness of the woman’s face haunting him as he made his way through the humid New Orleans morning.

Ignoring the heat, he started walking back toward his house. It was a couple of miles away and normally he would have taken a cab, but right now the walk felt good. Necessary. The heat touching the part of him that had been frozen since Samantha had died, and had grown even colder as he’d interviewed poor Mrs. Harlow. It wasn’t warming him, exactly, but it was keeping absolute despair at bay.

Would he end up like that, he wondered, as he turned left onto St. Charles and continued his trek. Cabs passed him, one after the other, but he didn’t raise a hand to flag them down. Simply turned his face as they slowed and kept up his pace. Dried up and miserable, like Mrs. Harlow—a living shrine to the sister who had died so long ago? The world so out of his control that he no longer had a reason to get up in the morning?

For seven years vengeance had kept him going—the need to find Samantha’s murderer at all costs. It had fueled the years of monitoring the police, the numerous private detectives, even his latest—and last—plan.

But what would he do if it didn’t work?

What if Samantha’s killer was never found, never charged?

Would he be able to move on, to live his life with the knowledge that that monster was still free? Still unpunished? Or would he shrivel up, become a soulless entity, just counting down the days until death?

*** Copyright: Novel12.Com