Deep Dark Secret

I moved ahead of Tyler, and the detective didn’t stop me.

Gabriel was sitting on his cot with his fingers threaded through his dark blond hair. His stubble was coming in, and his clothes were rumpled. He’d obviously been here through the day. When I stopped outside his cell I said nothing, but he must have heard us coming because he looked up. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he appeared older than he had the last time I’d seen him. Unfortunately, the moment he smiled his hazel eyes lit up exactly the way I remembered.

My heart skipped, and I wanted to rip it out and throw it against a wall. He’d destroyed me, broken my heart into a thousand pieces, and still I was excited to see him. It was all the proof I needed to know you could never be objective when it came to people you’d once loved.

“You came.” He got to his feet and stepped up to the metal bars, looping his fingers around them. Instinctively I took a step backwards. Not because I was afraid of him, but I couldn’t handle the thought of him touching me.

“Yeah, well. I wanted to see what you looked like behind bars. It suits you.”

He grimaced. “I deserved that.”

“No, Gabriel. What you deserve would be for me to have left you here to rot. Pretend I’d never gotten your message. Or better yet, called back and have them deliver my own message. A big old fuck you from yours truly.”

Tyler edged closer, obviously worried my bitching might turn violent. I’m not sure if he was more worried for my safety or for Gabriel’s.

“But instead, you’re here.” His voice never faltered, and the hint of a smirk hung on his lips. Cocky bastard. He’d known all along I would come, and I hated that he knew me well enough for that.

“So, who are they saying you’ve killed?”

Tyler moved backwards, closer to the exit. He probably wanted to diminish his presence in case Gabriel was about to tell me something that might be useful. I doubt he would get anything helpful, but if he did, all the better.

“Some coed at Columbia. A girl named Trish Keller.”

“Do you know her?”

“I did, yes.”

“How well?”

“We fooled around a little sometimes. Nothing serious, you know, late-night booty calls. I’m a TA in one of her classes. It’s sort of frowned upon.”

“You’re a TA at Columbia?” I couldn’t hide the shock in my voice. He’d been in his senior year at NYU when we met, and he’d talked about doing his Master’s, but I’d thought he was too flighty to seriously do it. Apparently I’d been wrong.

“Yeah.”

“Why do they think you did it?”

“Well, they’re not really opening up to me about the case against me, you know? But I’m guessing it’s because I’m the last person who saw her alive. Well, me and whoever killed her,” he corrected quickly. “We met up at a pub, went back to my place, fucked, and she went home around two.” His callousness wasn’t doing much to help his case, but Gabriel always had been a little too blunt for his own good. “Someone found her sometime after that, and one of her friends told the cops she left the bar with me. So now, here I am, public enemy number one.”

I frowned. “Anything else?”

“No.” He stepped back from the bars, shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled. “You look good, Temple. I missed your disapproving face.”

The only man to give me a nickname, and he hadn’t forgotten it. He used to tease me mercilessly about how my hair made me look like Shirley Temple. It hadn’t helped that my love for old movies and the Turner Classic Movies channel meant he had a lot of opportunities to make the reference. I swallowed a mouthful of acid.

“Did you kill her?” I replied.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“You going to help me?”

“Seems like it.”

Chapter Eleven

“Desmond?” The apartment door closed with a quiet click, and silence rushed to greet me. I didn’t need to search the rooms to know I was home alone. Shucking off my jacket and boots, I left them in a heap in the foyer and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Under the dim lights and against the overwhelming pinkness of my fixtures, I looked sallow and exhausted. I’d left my hair down when I went to the station since everyone’s reactions to Lucas’s love bite had been so negative, but now I shoved my hair back over my shoulder to get a look at it myself.

It wasn’t terrible. Two red, raised rows showed the perfect impression of his teeth, and a bluish-purple bruise swelled out around the bite. I’d never had a hickey, at least not one that lasted long enough for me to see, so I gathered this was what they usually looked like. No big deal, right?

I rubbed the area and winced. The bite ridges were warm, and touching them made my neck throb. The bruises felt like a dull ache. How was it possible such a minor wound hadn’t healed in almost twenty-four hours? I could heal a bullet wound in the same amount of time. There was no reason these marks should still exist.

Back in the living room I paced the area in front of my couch. Rio, my sinewy white cat, came to perch on the edge of the loveseat. Her tail flicked with each step I took, and her head tilted to the left as she watched me with her slitted green eyes.

What a week this was turning into, and I was only three days in. My ex-boyfriend was being accused of murder; the queen of the were-ocelots was asking me to find her niece; Lucas had an impending invasion to deal with; and now one of my boyfriends wasn’t talking to me because of a bruise that refused to heal. My plate was more than a little full.

I’d need to wait to deal with Lucas and the bite. Obviously there was more to it than simple foreplay, and I’d need to know what was up so I could respond appropriately to Desmond’s irrational anger. But that was my personal life, and it had to take the back burner to more pressing matters. Lucy Renard was missing, and she attended the same school as Trish Keller, the girl Gabriel was accused of killing.

Looks like all roads led to Columbia University.

I knew there was a reason I avoided campus bars.

The Angry Butterfly was located two blocks west of the Columbia campus, but I had realized a long time ago anything within stumbling distance to the dorms was considered fair game for those who matriculated at the prestigious school.

It was eleven o’clock on a Wednesday, but apparently no one cared too much about being hung over for morning classes because the bar was crammed full. There had to be some sort of capacity violation going on here. A big jock-type telling a loud story staggered backwards while laughing, elbowed me in the ribs and sloshed beer on my boots.

Changing out of my brand-new Prada dress had been a good idea.

“Heyyyy, sorry,” the drunk guy slurred, splashing me with more of his beer as he brushed off the shoulders of my jacket. How sauced was this idiot?

“It’s fine, just go away.”

“Maaaan, can I buy you a drink? You’re pretty.”

I rolled my eyes and weaved past him without another word. By now I knew talking to the drunks only encouraged them. Winding my way to the bar, I signaled the bartender over with a jerk of my chin. He was an older guy, mid-forties, and the strain of being so close to this many loud-mouthed drunks was starting to show on his face and in the gray around his temples.

“What’ll it be?” he growled.

“Jameson straight with a Guinness chaser, please.”

“A Guinness chaser?” He glared at me with naked suspicion. “Can I see some ID, girlie?”

Trying to be on my best behavior, I refrained from a snide comeback and opened my wallet to show him my license, proving I was twenty-three and perfectly legal to drink, thank you very much.

“Secret, eh?”

“I’d have to be pretty stupid to make up a name like that,” I replied, shoving my wallet back in my purse. Finally I had succeeded in making the barkeep smile, and now I knew he’d be more amiable. Good thing, too, because I needed to ask him some questions.

He poured my whiskey and put it next to a pint glass of near-black Guinness. I did the shot first, wrinkling my nose as it burned a path down my throat and made my insides feel like I’d swallowed smoke. Smacking my lips, I reached for the beer and took a mouthful, ran my tongue over my teeth and grinned.

I like my Irish booze, what can I say? I am a McQueen, after all.

“You take it easy,” the bartender warned. “Little thing like you, don’t want to see you getting into any trouble.”

“Do you see a lot of girls getting into trouble?”

“Not if I can help it. But I’ve only got two eyes, and there’s a lot of young ladies in here.” He nodded to the bustling crowd. “I can’t be everywhere.”

“Hey, can I ask if your two eyes remember seeing some girls in here recently?”

Someone at the other end of the bar hollered, and the bartender shot him an unfriendly look. “Yeah. Stay here, and when I’m done with this asshat, I’ll see if I remember your friends.”

I nodded, and my patience was rewarded when the stool nearest me was vacated. I pulled two photos out of my purse, one a candid snapshot of Lucy that Genevieve had given me, and the other a computer print of Trish Keller I’d taken off Facebook. God I love the Internet. The photo of Trish was perfect because in it she looked half drunk and was holding a glass in her hand. It might help the bartender remember the wildlife better if he could envision her in her natural habitat.

I tried to tune out the animated environment of the bar. After the Rangers game and my near vamp-out, I was wary of being in crowds. Especially big boozy crowds full of drunk idiots who acted like the human equivalent of a wounded gazelle. If I wanted to keep a grip on myself, it might be a good idea if I didn’t start thinking of college kids in terms of prey. Taking another sip of Guinness, I did my best to ignore the nice, blood-scented crowd.

A girl came up next to me, but I didn’t pay any attention to her. Not until she reached out and snatched the picture of Trish. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">