Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

Only Reyes Farrow could do this to me. Could make me beg for him, no matter the setting. No matter how dire the predicament. And he knew it. He knew exactly what he did to me.

I felt a smile behind his kiss a microsecond before he lifted off me and vanished into the dark. A rush of cold took the place of the heat that had blanketed me. I dropped my arms to the ground. Closed my eyes. Breathed. A whimper sounded beside me. Artemis lay in the distance, watching. Every few seconds, she’d inch closer, crawling on her stomach. Then she’d stop and focus on something in the distance, pretending not to notice me.

One of the men woke up then, his movements slow and lethargic as he rubbed his head, the back of his neck. He tried to make sense of his surroundings, but couldn’t seem to manage it. No telling where he was from. Two lay dead, and three others lay unconscious still as the first patrol car skidded to a halt in the parking lot. Right in front of the Englishman’s body. And on a building top down the street, they’d find another body, that of a blond biker who was almost a sniper in the Marines, who’d wanted to serve his country but now robbed banks and tried to snipe people.

I covered my eyes with my arms. I didn’t care what kind of connections I had, no way was I getting out of this unscathed. This could even put Uncle Bob in the spotlight if he tried to cover any of it up. It could jeopardize his career. His retirement.

A patrolman rushed over to me. He said something I couldn’t quite make out, because another realization had washed over me, and I suddenly couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

I’d killed a man. I’d reached inside his chest and stopped his heart. Like I had the authority. Like I had the right.

My world tumbled back into a familiar place. One of darkness and desperation and denial. Then I was being lifted. Bright lights flickered past. Blue scrubs. Silver instruments. Somewhere in the fog of reality, Uncle Bob appeared. Then Cookie. I felt cool sheets beneath my body and warm hands cupped in mine, and I realized I was in the hospital for the second time in as many months. I heard familiar words: concussion, stab wounds, fractured ankle. The last one surprised me. I didn’t remember that part. But that’s what adrenaline did. It pushed pain aside and thrust you forward.

I forced my lids apart.

Dad was there, too. Close by. As was Uncle Bob, and I knew I could tell them. They would know what to do.

I pressed my mouth together, closed my eyes, and said, “I killed a man.”

When I looked again, they glanced at each other, worry in their expressions. “One of the men outside your apartment building? Because it looked like they fought each—”

“No, a man on a roof. A bank robber who wanted to kill me.”

Uncle Bob’s brows furrowed. “When, pumpkin? We don’t—”

“Tonight. Right after I was attacked. He was on a rooftop and I killed him. After he shot Reyes with a fifty-caliber rifle, I reached inside his chest and stopped his heart.” Soft sobs drifted out of me as Dad took my hand.

“Sweetheart, that’s impossible. If Reyes was shot with a fifty-caliber rifle from a sniper on a rooftop, he would not be alive.”

“He wouldn’t even be in one piece,” Uncle Bob agreed.

“You don’t understand,” I said, sorrow drowning my words, “I killed a man. I lost control. I killed him.”

“Shhhh,” Dad said, cradling my head against his shoulder. “You’re not like us, hon. I know that. And I don’t care who or what you are, I know one thing for certain: Your actions are above the laws of man. I’m sorry for saying that, but it’s the truth. You are here for a reason.”

“Robert. Leland.”

I looked up to see the police captain from Uncle Bob’s precinct walk in. Uncle Bob nodded to him, then leaned in and whispered in my ear. “You don’t remember anything.”

Ever the champion, he was still fighting to keep me out of jail. Or prison. Or the nuthouse. But this was bigger than any of us. There was simply no explanation for what had happened. Then again, what was I supposed to tell them? The truth?

Special Agent Carson walked in right behind the captain.

“You’re quite an asset,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. He glanced at Uncle Bob, then back. “You managed to solve four cases in one day. I think this is a new world record.”

“Four?”

He counted on his fingers. “The disappearance and death of Harper Lowell. A missing persons case from over two decades ago. The disappearance of several people who seemed to have been drugged and dropped on your doorstep. We’ve had a rash of those lately. And the apprehension of an escaped serial killer. But come to think of it,” he said, looking at his hands, “that might technically be five. Or maybe even six.”

“A serial killer?”

He nodded. “You’re about to make us one of the most respected departments in the country. One of our consultants single-handedly took down the Englishman, a convicted serial killer who escaped from Sing Sing three months ago.”

It figured Hedeshi would have chosen a serial killer as his host. I wondered how on Earth he got him out of Sing Sing.

“And he’s not even from England.”

I blinked in surprise. “He wasn’t English?”

“No, he was originally from Jersey. He just spoke with an English accent. No one knew why. But I have to admit, I think it’s odd that all this would happen to you in one day, especially considering the other guy,” the captain said.