I shake my head.
“No what? No there’s not a plan or no to moving in?” An edge creeps into his voice, and I know it’s fear.
“No to all of it. I sort of haven’t talked to Henry or any of them since I found out. I had to take care of the woman and—”
“Bullshit.” He steps back then, arms releasing me, putting distance between us. Anger. Worry. Frustration. He's feeling all the things I can't, and I wish briefly that he was a bit less in touch with his emotions. “You’re avoiding dealing with it.”
I walk around him and pour the coffee. I add the creamer and sugar he likes and hold out his cup. For a moment, I think he’s angry enough that he’s not going to take it.
“I came to you. That’s what I’m doing so far.”
He sighs. “You need to talk to Revill about your safety.”
Any other time, I would’ve called Andrew out on the tinge of hostility he has toward Henry, but tonight, I ignore it. There are reasons for his jealousy and possessiveness, but I came to him, not Henry.
He’s a good man. There are good men. Sometimes, though, when I see the women who die at the hands of men, I remember that in most cases, they thought their killers were good once. How can anyone trust? How do we know which love is safe?
Darren killed my sister. My nephew.
The Creeper is out there, blending into society.
Men like him are out there, and I cannot trust my own judgment to be sure that any man is truly safe.
I shake my head. “I need to find him.”
Finding the Creeper . . . well, no one’s managed that. It’s sheer arrogance to think I can find him.
But then again, he isn’t sending anyone else letters as far as I know. He’s paying attention to me. Maybe he wants me to find him. The thought of that, of him wanting anything from me, makes me fill with so much fear that I feel like I might vomit.
“That’s Revill’s job. Not yours.”
“The Creeper didn’t send a letter addressed to Henry. He said he wanted me to take care of his ‘pretty things.’”
“Jesus.” Andrew pulls me in for a hug. “Move in here. Let me take care of you. Stay with me so he can’t get to you.”
It’s not the worst idea ever, but I can’t, especially now. I will not let some sociopath control my life, rush me into decisions I’m not sure are wise, change how I live, force me into commitments. I watched Darren dominate my sister, make her smaller and smaller until one day he just killed her.
No one will ever control me. Not the Creeper. Not Andrew. Not Henry.
“You know I . . . care about you."
"I figured that out the first time you shoved me onto a bed."
I roll my eyes. "I care. It's not just sex. I care . . .I . . . "
"I know, Jules." Andrew looks like he's not sure whether to laugh at my discomfort. "So why not move in?"
“No. I’m staying at my home with Uncle Mickey. Right now, that’s where I belong.” I don't want to discuss it, but Andrew deserves some answer. I push past my tendency to keep my fears to myself. "He's obviously trying to manipulate me. I can't let him."
He gives me a sympathetic look. Andrew lost a sister and his parents when he was a kid. He understands loss, too. It's not pity in his face, but he's looking at me in the way that reminds me that he knows better than anyone why I find the mere thought of commitment terrifying. My sister's death just about broke me. My nephew's death . . . there are no words for how I felt when I heard that Darren killed Tommy, too.
I walk out of the kitchen, trying to move away from memories best left forgotten. I need to stop thinking about Darren. He’s in jail. There's nothing more to say there.
I walk away and stare at the files I brought with me.
Silently, Andrew follows me to the coffee table. He doesn’t offer to help, and I don’t ask. We both sit and take a file. It’s not the first night we’ve done this.
“What if they never find him?” Andrew asks several minutes later. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the stack of articles he’s pouring over.
“They will.”
The Carolina Creeper case has bothered me since the first body was on my table, but this time, it’s worse.
His latest victim is in my basement. He’s obviously trying to draw me in, but I don’t know why or what he wants. Is it a warning that I’m in danger? Or does he want to be stopped? Some of the articles in the past speculated on my physical similarities to the victim that was never found. I look like her, and I handle the dead.
“I have to find him. I don’t know. I can’t . . . I just . . . I can’t ignore it.”
I look at Andrew as I realize that he was aware of the latest body before I came to his place. He had to be; everyone in Durham is. I suspect people in the whole of the state and other states, too, are. There was already another write-up that got picked up by the AP. So, all of the Associated Press affiliates had summaries of the killer. What was omitted so far was his presumed fascination with me.
I stare at Andrew, but I don’t ask why he didn’t seek me out or prompt me when he undoubtedly knew what sent me to his arms. He chose not to come to me, but he didn’t reject me. I’m not sure what to do with that.
“I couldn’t prepare her body because of his fucking letter.” I try to keep my voice level, keep both my anger at the killer and my frustration with my lover out of the words I need to say. “He killed another woman, and I couldn’t do my job.”
“You are human.”
I wave his words away. “I don’t know how to find him, but maybe I can find Teresa Morris. That’s the best bet we have. She’s the most likely clue . . .”
It’s not exactly a new plan. A lot of people would like to find Teresa. She’s the only person I can think of who might help me find the killer, find the missing bodies of the girls who disappeared . . . unless she’s dead, too.
I hear myself getting louder, my voice too sharp. “I need to do something. I have to.”
He drops his voice to that soothing tone and reaches out to touch my hand cautiously. “Jules . . . you could just leave it alone. Take care of yourself, but stay out of the investigation. Let them do their job, and you just . . . stay safe. Maybe tell them you won’t be able to deal with any more of his victims.”
Andrew moves closer to me and tries to hug me.
I pull away. I know he means well. I know he cares about me, but his words make me feel weak. I am not weak. I will never be weak. “Fuck that.”
Andrew doesn't flinch. The man has the patience of a saint. He has to in order to be with me.
“No one would think less of you. A killer sent a letter to you, and you’re letting your emotions—”
“I’m not.” I glare at him. This bubble of rising rage isn’t what I’m to feel, not when I’m with Andrew. He’s meant to be calm and steady. He’s in my life because he can level me when I become emotional. Right now, it’s not working. I am livid. "I am not being emotional. I'm not letting this asshole manipulate me either."
“Be smart, Jules. Talk to Revill, but don’t get involved.” Andrew doesn’t reach out again. He looks like he wants to, but he holds back. “Think about it, Jules. Please? He’s dangerous, but maybe if you let it go—”