My Killer Vacation — Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Taylor

ou are such abadass,” I whisper to myself, a“Y noticeable spring in my step. Not only did I ride a Harley this morning, I avoided suspicion from the most suspicious man I’ve ever met. He thinks I’ve come to the library to check out the latest bestseller—and actually, I might, just to kill two birds with one stone—but what Myles doesn’t know is that the county clerk’s office is attached to the library and it’s my true destination.

There is a significant part of me that just wants to check out a few books and go meet Myles for ice cream. Engage in none of this deception. But earlier on the beach, I decided to help solve this case, any way I can. For me. For Myles. If there is something I can do to stop him from punishing himself over the past and maybe, just maybe, consider becoming a professional investigator again, I want to do it. I have to try and make a difference.

And seven years of listening toEtched in Bone, I know one thing. There is always an overlooked clue. In the initial stages of an investigation, the bigger components like timelines and opportunity and physical evidence are the primary concern, but it’s when the detectives circle back to the beginning and look deeper into the killer’s personal connections? When they pick apart the paper trail? That’s when the murders get solved.

Myles mentioned that Lisa Stanley stands to inherit the properties owned by her brother. That definitely gives her motive to kill him. Money is oftentimes a prime motivator.

But here’s the thing.

It’s not cheap to buy property in Cape Cod. Especially on the ocean.

And Oscar Stanley was a retired postman.

Something about that doesn’t add up. It’s possible he had family money, like an inheritance or perhaps an injury settlement that helped him purchase these in-demand properties one by one, but those are details that should be explored. This is where I can be useful. This is where I can prove to myself that I’m not the kind of woman who sits back and lets everyone else take risks while I blend in with the background.

Shoulders set with determination, I move through the stacks all the way to the back of the library and push through the glass door separating it from the county clerk.

“Hello,” I say brightly to the woman behind the desk. “I’m

looking for property records.”

She nods, picks up a pencil. “Address?”

“There are multiple addresses.”

“Of course there are,” she sighs.

Twenty minutes later, I have my printouts. Using my hip to open the glass door, I walk back into the library and find a quiet table in the biography section, spreading Oscar Stanley’s property records out in front of me. I check my phone to make sure Jude hasn’t called or texted—and he hasn’t. Neither has Myles. Good. The menfolk are occupied.

I’m free to snoop.

I drop my phone onto the table and go through the first record, which belongs to the property where Oscar was murdered. Nothing is odd about it that I can see. His name is the only one listed as an owner. It’s when I move on to the next record that my spine begins to tingle. Under owner name, there is Oscar Stanley.

But his name isn’t the only one listed.Evergreen Corp.

It’s on the next record, as well. And the next three.

Oscar Stanley didn’t own these properties alone.

He had a business partner.

And everyone knows that business partners are the most likely to commit murders, second only to spouses. I have to tell Myles— I’m halfway through my thought when something heavy slams into the side of my head.

Pain detonates in my temple and everything goes black.

aylor!”“T

Consciousness slowly returns, but I immediately wish I was still out cold.

My head is throbbing and I can smell blood. That’s bad enough.

But there is also a bounty hunter shouting an inch from my face.

I crack open an eyelid and he whispers a prayer at the ceiling, then gets back to shouting. “Are you okay? Where else are you hurt? Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay. Stop yelling,” I command in a strangled whisper.

“Stopyelling? You’re laying herebleeding and you want me to stop yelling?” His hands race over my body and back up to my head, the brownish moss color of his eyes eclipsed by dilated pupils, sweat trickling down the sides of his face.

Is he shaking? “What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know.” When I realize there is a crowd of people around us, a lot of them on the phone to what sounds like 911, I struggle to sit up. “I was sitting here. Someone hit me. With a book, I think. It felt like leather.”

“There was a book on the ground. Over here on the floor,” calls the county clerk receptionist who helped me earlier. How long ago? How long have I been passed out on the floor of the library? “There’s some blood on it. Probably hers.”

“Christ,” Myles grits out, appearing seasick.

Someone assaulted me.

A nervous sound escapes my lips and I’m promptly pulled into Myles’s arms. The warm safety of his body makes me forget about our audience and I simply wrap myself around him, legs around his waist, arms circling his

neck, desperately needing the heat. I’m cold, teeth chattering. It feels like I’ve been pulled out of an icy pond.

“Myles.”

“I’ve got you, Taylor. I’m right here.” He’s taking deep breaths, as if trying to calm himself down, but I can tell it’s not working. “Are there cameras in here? I want to know who did this.Now.”

“No cameras, sir. I’m sorry.” A male voice. There’s a pause wherein all I can hear is my heart racing along with Myles’s. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”

“I don’t want the ambulance. I just want to go home.”

“You could have a…” He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple moving against the uninjured side of my head. “It could be a concussion. Jesus. I left the meeting as soon as I saw the ballistics report. The gun you found on the beach was not the murder weapon, Taylor. It’s still out there. And I could feel something was off. I should never have left you alone—”

I process the news about the ballistics report, a weight sinking down to my knees. “This is not your fault. I’m in a public library in the middle of the day,” I say into his

shoulder. “I should have been safe.”

“But you weren’t, Taylor. You weren’t.”

My intuition is whispering that this is a bad turn of events. Not only because this is the second time I’ve been the target of violence, but in trying to help Myles, I might have inadvertently made everything worse.

“I’m okay.”

“I need a paramedic to tell me that, all right? Stay awake, all right? Eyes open.” Several seconds tick by and I

slowly notice his muscles tensing beneath me. “Is that your paperwork on the table?”

Oh dear. This is not the time. “I suddenly feel woozy.”

Myles stands with me in his arms and strides into one of the stacks, away from the listening ears surrounding us. If I’m not mistaken, he’s also moving us in a subtle rocking motion. But he’s still breathing fast, the warm bursts pelting the side of my head. “Believe me, I just want you lying down in a bed somewhere with ice on your head, but I need information now, Taylor. Someonehurt you.”

“Right. I know. Okay.” I swallow. “It never made sense to me that Oscar Stanley, a retired postman, could afford so many vacation homes. Obviously he might have received an inheritance or otherwise, but a partner made more sense.

So I came to check the property records and I was right.

I’m…drawing a blank right now on the name of the corporation because I’m still slightly dizzy—”

He makes a miserable sound, his arms tightening around me.

“But on every property besides the one where he was murdered, there was another name listed on the deed. Not his sister. Some corporation.”

For a moment, he looks pensive, then we’re walking back toward the table where the paperwork is still sitting.

“So far, I only checked the property records on the first house,” he says, looking down at the documents.

“You would have circled back. Investigators always circle back.”

“But you decided to do it for me and almost get yourself killed before that could happen.” His throat works. “Before

I could find what I missed.”

“Yes. I’m a teacher. We have a thirst for knowledge…and also being right. Myles, I don’t like your grim tone of voice.”

Nor do I like how he has gone stone cold against me. He settles me on the edge of the table and gathers the paperwork up into a stack, folding it once lengthways and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans. I’m trying to catch his eye so I can determine what’s wrong, but a paramedic breezes into my line of vision, along with a police officer I recognize.

“Officer Wright,” I exclaim, unable to stave off a smile.

The sudden movement of my mouth causes my head to throb and I wince. Myles curses and starts to pace.

“I wish we were reuniting under better circumstances,”

begins Wright.

“Me too. How have you been?”

“I’ve been better, actually.” He jerks a thumb toward the street. “Thank God that rally ended a while ago. The locals are rowdier than they look—”

“Enough with the small talk,” Myles shouts from a few yards away, expression thunderous. “Someone check her fucking head.”

Wright whistles under his breath, pulling out a pen and notepad.

“I have been summoned,” mutters the paramedic. He examines my wound, makes a few notes. Shines a small flashlight into my eyes and asks me a series of questions before clicking it off. “Not a concussion. Just a nasty cut. I’ll bandage it up and you can head home.”

Wright snort laughs. “Head home.” He looks at Myles.

“It’s funny because she has a head wound.”

“How is that funny?” Myles growls. Continuing to stare down at the officer, Myles drops into the chair I occupied earlier, drawing me down off the table into his lap. I can feel that more blood has escaped from the wound in the last few minutes and he regards the broken skin with a pale face. “Fix it.”

“Are you angry with me?” I whisper in his ear.

“We’ll talk about this later.”

Wright hunkers down in front of me with his notepad.

“All right, first question.” A grin spreads the corners of his mouth. “Are you two a thing? This seems like it might be a thing.”

If Myles unclenched his teeth right now, I’m pretty sure

fire would spew forth.

“We’re not a thing,” I answer for us.

Myles starts, turning his frown on me. “Well hold on.

That’s not completely accurate.”

“Yes, it is,” I say to Wright. “Not a thing. Write that down.”

“What do you call hand holding?” Myles asks me.

Wright pretends to make a note, murmuring, “So there has been hand holding…”

“I don’t know what you consider ‘thing’ material, Myles.” I’m as perplexed as the bounty hunter appears to be. After all, I’m only stating the truth. “But you don’t just get to…to accidentally slip and fall into a relationship.

Conversations must be had. Questions have to be asked.”

“Like what?” Myles and Wright say at the same time.

On top of having a head wound, my face is starting to flame. These two men are looking at me like I’m crazy. Do I have the process all wrong? I’ve never encountered this level of skepticism about it. Although that might be because I’ve never detailed my beliefs out loud. “Well. One party asks the other party to be…permanent. And monogamous.”

“Like a marriage proposal?” Wright wants to know. Oh

God, he’s taking notes.

“N-no. Not quite. More like…”

“Asking someone to go steady?” Myles finishes for me, amusement dancing across his features. I suppose I should be grateful he’s no longer scowling, but I’m not.

My mouth snaps shut and I can no longer look them in the eye. Wow. Have I unconsciously been carrying around these beliefs since high school? When my first boyfriend asked me to be his girlfriend, I assumed that was how it would work forever. An establishing of boundaries. A

clearly stated intention.

Shouldn’t it be?

Yes. It should.

I shrug. “I don’t know what it’s called. But he hasn’t given me the words a person needs to feel secure and comfortable. We’re not a thing.”

Myles’s amusement goes out like a light.

“Okay, let’s get this wound cleaned,” says the paramedic, kneeling down beside Wright, who begins asking me questions thatactually pertain to my assault.

“Did you notice anybody when you walked into the library?”

“No one but the people behind the counter.” I point them out where they are still hovering nearby.

“Did you have any odd encounters before you entered the library?”

“Only with Myles. Our encounters are always odd.” The joke is barely out of my mouth when something wonderful occurs to me and I gasp, turning in the bounty hunter’s lap to face him. He’s looking down at me, appearing as though he’s trying to chew through a piece of metal. “You’re a suspect this time.”

“Not technically,” Wright interjects. “He was in a meeting with us.”

I raise an eyebrow at Myles. “I’ll need to work up the timeline to be sure.”

At first, I don’t think he’s going to respond. He’s just going to continue glaring, that muscle popping in his cheek. But then he leans forward and speaks into my ear, low enough that I’m the only one who can hear him. “I’d take a bullet between the eyes before I raised a hand to you, Taylor. The fact that you have to spend a second in pain makes me want to die. Are those the kind of words you’re talking about? Because they’re the only ones I’ve got.”

Oh my. It’s very hard to concentrate on giving my statement after that, but I get through the final series of questions. My cut is salved and bandaged. No sooner have I thanked Wright and the paramedics before Myles hefts me up against his chest and carries me out of the library’s rear entrance.

“I texted Jude to come pick us up, but he didn’t respond.”

“He has been ignoring his phone because of Dante.”

“Who?” Myles asks absently.

“Never mind. You know, I don’t need to be carried. I’m

fine to walk.”

No response.

A black sedan is waiting behind the library and Myles carries me there, sitting us both in the backseat. The driver gives us a curious glance in the rearview, but leaves the parking lot and pulls into traffic without asking questions.

That’s when my adrenaline crashes like scaffolding from ten stories high.

Cold permeates me and I begin to shiver, despite the heat Myles is radiating against me. The last half an hour replays like a dream. Was I really discussing relationships with a police officer or is my brain playing tricks on me?

Thethwack of heavy leather connecting with the side of my head replays over and over again until it’s hard for me to breathe and the shivers are only getting worse.

“Taylor, you’re shaking.”

“I know.”

His voice is very calm, but there is a layer of anxiousness just below the surface. “You told the EMT you weren’t nauseous. Did something change?”

“No, I’m just realizing what happened. Or how much

worse it could have been.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“Now that there’s no…buzz. Or activity. Or questions to answer…” I rub my bare arm and Myles immediately takes

over that duty. “I’m fine. I’m just really, really cold.”

He nods, a knot moving up and down in his throat.

“Almost home. I’ll fix it.”

I can fix it myself. That’s what I want to say. That’s what Ialways say, in one form or another. But I don’t want to be in charge right now. I just want this man, who I trust, to get me somewhere warm where I can process everything that happened. “I don’t really think you’re a suspect, Myles.”

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart.” He kisses my bandage carefully. “I never thought you were one, either.”

I like him like this—gentle and reassuring—as much as I like him honest and blunt and gruff. There’s more to him than meets the eye. Layers upon layers. Didn’t I somehow already know that? “We never got our ice cream,” I say into his throat. “I was dying to know which flavor you would

pick.”

“Cookie dough.”

“Really?”

“Married to it. Never get anything else.”

“I’m flabbergasted. It’s so frivolous.”

“Peach-flavored beer is frivolous, half pint. Cookie dough ice cream is unmatched.”

“Spoken like someone who hasn’t tried butterscotch.”

“And never will. That’s a grandma flavor.”

Midway through my gasp, I realize he’s trying to distract me from what happened—and it’s working. He’s soft on the inside. Did part of me sense that from the beginning? Yeah.

Yeah, I think so. Now he’s carrying on a conversation about ice cream even though the vein in his right temple looks like it’s going to tick out of his head. “I’m okay, you know.”

He swallows a sound. “Goddammit, Taylor.”

I can’t stop myself from leaning up and kissing his chin.

He closes his eyes at the contact, dipping his mouth to mine, our breaths tripping over one another’s. “Please,” he

urges gruffly against my lips. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I don’t know. Everything. No matter what you’re doing, it gets to me. When you’re pissed or laughing or hurt or not evenwith me, I get torn up over it.”

“That’s them. Those are the words,” I whisper, shaken, chest twisting.

He’s shaking his head. “Taylor, I’m leaving after I solve this case. As soon as I find out who did this to you, I’m going to lock them up and throw away the key. Then it’s back to bounty hunting. You in Connecticut. Me on the road. I’m not going to be your boyfriend. You’re not going to fix me. I’m not going to settle down. All right? If that’s what you’re thinking could happen…” His jaw flexes. “I’ve done everything I can to give you the opposite impression.”

“I know, Myles. I…”

“What?”

“I haven’t gotten that far. As in, the future. A future where you’re my boyfriend. I haven’t imagined what would come next if we were together. It hasn’t even entered my mind.”

Now he looks angrier than ever. This man is so confusing.

“I just want to be with younow,” I murmur, sitting up straighter in his lap, ghosting my mouth over the rapidly beating pulse at the bottom of his neck, my hand smoothing

up the front of his shirt. “I need to be with you. Just for now.”

I work my lower body in a slow circle on his lap, but he grabs my hips before I can complete the revolution. “You’re hurt.”

Mouth pressed to his ear, I whisper, “Being hurt only makes me need you more.”

The car pulls to a stop outside the rental house.

Myles blows out an unsteady breath. “Shit.”