Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

I remember the cases. Sheryl Lansdowne’s go-to methods of murder. All indirect. Accidental. Natural causes. “Check him,” I whisper. “This isn’t right. It can’t be right. He was going to look into who sent me flowers—”

“Kez, you’re just out of a hospital bed,” the chief says. “Please. Let us do what we’ve got to do for Prester. He wouldn’t want you out here right now.”

Prester would want me to find his killer. I’m the reason this happened. I have to be. It can’t just happen.

Except it could. I know it could, I’ve been worrying about him, we’ve all seen how bad he’s gotten these past few weeks . . .

I look down. There are footprints in the dirt here, but they’re all large, old-fashioned men’s dress shoes.

No. Not all of them. There are smaller prints. Some kind of sneaker. I wordlessly point to them, and the chief nods. “We marked them,” he says. “But Kez—they’re about your size. You come up here sometimes, don’t you?”

I feel sick, hot, drifting. I force myself to think. “About three days ago. I brought him—” My voice fails. I try again. “I brought him out a case file.”

“Were you wearing the same shoes you have on now?”

I just shake my head. I can’t remember. I don’t know. I don’t know. What size are Sheryl Lansdowne’s shoes? No sign of violence on him—they just said so. “Look for an injection mark, something like that,” I say. “In case.”

“In case what?”

They’re all looking at me with concern. “In case somebody killed him, damn, what do you think?” I feel raw. I just want to sit down and cry right now. Those aren’t my footprints. Can’t be. I look again, and it hits me like a brick to the face that Prester has walked the last step in those stupid Florsheim dress shoes he must still have on. The ones I mocked him about just last week. Come on, old man; treat yourself to something new.

The chief pauses, face pale and older than it was the last I saw him, and then nods. “I’ll get it done. Kezia—go home. Please.” He’s humoring me. He doesn’t believe me. And there’s no damn reason he should; even I know I’m not thinking straight right now.

I don’t argue the point. There’s nothing here for me. Nothing but what I’ve already noticed. I walk with Javier back to the rental car, and before I get in, I check my phone, which is halfway recharged now.

There’s a voice mail from Prester. My heart lurches. I look wordlessly across at Javier, and he pauses in the act of opening his door. “What?”

I hold up a shaking finger to ask him to wait, and I hit the button to play the message.

Prester’s voice takes my breath away. “Claremont, I finally got hold of some-damn-body at the flower shop that made the bouquet, but they don’t have . . . it was an order off the . . . off the internet like I . . .” I gasp and put my hand over my mouth, because he’s struggling. He’s gasping. I have a recording of him dying. I can’t listen to it, I can’t.

Javier is by me in a second, taking the phone from me; I’m crying too hard to speak, and the weight of anguish inside me feels like it might take me to the ground. He listens to the recording, and I watch the grim shock settle on his face. He finally stops it and says, “Get in the car, Kez. Let me talk to the chief for you, okay?”

I can’t do anything else. I collapse into the seat, and I feel a rush of rage come over me, bad enough I want to punch the dashboard and scream the pressure out.

Prester died trying to help me.

Why?

God, why?

Javier wraps me in a warm blanket once I get home, but I can’t sit still; I need to get out of these stiff, bloody clothes. I need a shower. He’s busy in the kitchen making eggs, so I slip away, strip, and stand in the hot water and cry out my frustration and grief. I need you, partner.

I never got to say goodbye.

When I get out of the shower at last, dry off, get dressed, I see that I have a text message on my phone. When I open it up, it’s a video. In the still shot, I see that it’s Prester. Prester, in his car.

I sit down on the toilet, fast, and I breathe through the panic and pain.

Then I hit play.

Prester. Having a heart attack. And someone standing there filming him. I force myself to watch, tearing apart my heart in big, wet pieces, and then . . . then he closes his eyes and goes still.

Gone.

“At least he wasn’t alone,” a woman’s voice says. “Poor old guy.”

Then it goes dark.

Another text comes in. This didn’t need to happen. You could have let it go. Let it go this time.

Another video pops up. I hit play. It’s Javier getting out of the rental car last night in the hospital parking lot.

Another video after that. Pop, in his cabin, washing dishes. Someone filming through his window.

The storm inside me is so violent I don’t know how to feel. Terrified. Enraged. Agonized. Horrified. All at the same time, like an explosion under my skin.

And another text. Stay home, Kezia. This isn’t about you.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be. Maybe in his mind, it isn’t.

I am not letting go.

I feel my hunter’s blood, rushing hot and fast with every heartbeat.

This isn’t about you.

Oh, it is, you coldhearted bastard. It is.

20

GWEN

I sleep only because I know I must. My family is here. They’re safe. It feels like things are resolving, like our normal lives may be just within reach again.

I’m the only one who knows it’s a lie.

Four hours later, I open my eyes and slip out of bed, waking without any transition at all. No sense of peace. I silently get dressed in jeans, a