I saw her. I saw a lot of her. Damn it.
“She’s very pretty,” Mason said, his eyes watching me closely.
“Uh-huh.” I opened the file and flipped through the pages. “Are you sure about these?”
“No one is ever sure of anything when it comes to mental health. But you were looking for a tie between them, a motive, or some way to link them together. I couldn’t find one. I’d be happy to take a look at more, though.”
“I’ll let you know.” I closed my file.
“About Shelly—”
I held up my hand. “I really don’t want to discuss Shelly.” That was a finished deal. I would get rid of her. That would be done.
“I just wanted to warn you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I replied. “I’ve been warned.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“You’re married to her twin. Of course you’d say that.” I snorted.
“I’d say that even if they looked nothing alike. She’s a lovely woman.”
“Why do I feel a but hanging in the air between us?”
“But,” he said loudly, “don’t forget that she is what she is.”
“What is she, exactly?”
“Diagnostically speaking, she’s an obsessive–compulsive sociopath with homicidal tendencies.”
“And if you had to describe her personally?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.” He bit his lips together.
“She’s your sister-in-law.”
“I know.”
“Come on, Mason. Tell me what you think.”
“I’m not allowed to.”
“By dictate of your profession or your wife?”
“Both.” He took in a deep breath. “Just be careful, okay? Shelly has a way of being whatever you need her to be when you need her to be it. She’s like a chameleon and she can fit into any situation, anywhere, anytime. But you should never let your guard down. Never.”
“Why did you set me up, if you had all these concerns?”
“I don’t know anyone else who could handle her, honestly. She wants a real life, and she’s never been allowed to have one. She’s had privilege, she’s had heartache, and she’s suffered. She’s never had a chance for a lot of happiness. Hell, I think she’d settle for contentment. I think she might find that in a job. And I don’t know anyone else who might accept all those things that she is and just…let her be her. Maybe even like her. As a friend. Just as a friend,” he rushed to say when I began to protest. “No one else knows everything about her. You’re not going into this blind. You’re aware. And you need help. She can help. Let her give normal a shot, will you?”
I stood up and smacked my file lightly against my palm. “Thanks for looking at this. I appreciate it.”
I left without looking back.
One thing I knew for sure was that Shelly Punter could never be normal. Not in her lifetime. Not in mine. Not ever. She was too far gone. She’d seen too much, done too much, and she had too many scars. They would chafe at her for the rest of her life. Just like mine.
Chapter 8
Clark
“I want you to find my son,” the woman said as she perched on the edge of her chair, directly across from my desk. My desk was clear of papers and clutter, and that alone was distracting. But even worse than that was the lady who wanted me to find her son. He’d escaped from prison two months ago. He’d been on the run ever since.
“I’m pretty sure that the police are already looking for your son,” I reminded her.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She gnawed on her lower lip. “My son is innocent,” she rushed to add.
That’s what they all said. They were innocent, right until the point where someone proved they weren’t.
“I need for you to find him before they do.”
“For what purpose?”
She appeared confused. “Because I love him and want to be sure he’s all right.”
Of course he wasn’t all right. He was running from the law. “What makes you think he’s innocent?”
“My son is not a killer.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He loved that girl. He didn’t do it. He was framed.”
Of course he was. My temple began to thump, and I knew a headache would be forthcoming, a bigger one than the one that sat across from my desk. I needed some pain relief, and my bottle of anti-inflammatory was in the bathroom cabinet. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” I said absently as I got to my feet. My side still ached from last night, and today had been a royal shit show. This lady wasn’t making it any better.
“Of course,” she said quietly. She scooted back in her chair so that her arms no longer rested on my desk.
I got up and went to the bathroom, and then I stopped to splash some water on my face.
I loved my job, but damn…some days were better than others.
After I took a couple of pills, I went back out to my office. I stopped short when I saw Shelly sitting in my chair behind my desk. Her elbow rested on my desk, and she frantically scribbled notes on a pad in front of her. As I walked closer, she got to her feet, shook the woman’s hand, and led her with a gentle hand on the woman’s elbow toward the door. She closed it behind the woman and froze when I spoke.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I didn’t pick the lock,” she said, turning to face me. “The door was open.” She glanced down at her watch. “I came during regular business hours.”
Her blue eyes met mine and my mind went instantly blank. There was nothing in my head aside from the blue of her eyes.
“Clark?” she prompted. She tilted her head to the side. “Are you all right?”
I gave up and sat down, then lowered my head so that each temple rested on each of my palms. I said nothing and just took a few deep breaths.
“Clark?” she said again.
Finally, I let my arms drop and lifted my head. “Yes, Shelly.”
“Are you all right?” She stepped closer toward me. She was wearing those ridiculous high heels, a pencil skirt, and a button-down blouse that was almost the same color as her light-pink lips.
I heaved a sigh. “I’m fine.”
“Headache?” she asked.
Yes, one that was about five-six, blond hair, and bright blue eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Did you take something?”
“Yes.” I looked down at the notes that Shelly had scribbled.
She’s a fucking liar.
Her son is guilty.
He killed her and tossed her body into the dumpster like garbage.
He’s garbage, and someone should find him, choke him to death, and dump his body in the same fucking dumpster.
“Did she tell you all this?” I asked.
She rocked her head from side to side. “More or less.”
“What exactly did she tell you?”
“Oh,” she chirped as she crossed the room and set her purse on the floor by my desk, “she told me that he’s a good boy, that he’s never been in any trouble, except for that one time another girl he was dating disappeared. The mother told me that the son was with her the night that girl had been killed.”