Love Me Dead (Lilah Love 3)

“That’s it. You’d run from me and Kane? Because you don’t seem to get it. Kane will kill you.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“Are you going to give me a reason?”

“That certainly isn’t the plan. Back to today.”

“Today was a test. Today was staged. No one but me and Tic Tac knows that.”

“I’ll trust your reasoning on that, but I hope that you choose to tell Houston. I won’t. Read his file. And stay safe, Agent Love. I have big plans for you.” He disconnects.

I toss my phone down and pull off the gloves, tossing them on the table next to it. I intend to look at Houston’s file, but Murphy’s words come back to me: Kane is a powerful man who frankly scares the shit out of me. My gaze goes to that painting of the cove, memories rushing back at me. It was there, with nothing but the ocean to hear us, that Kane first told me who and what the Mendez name meant, what rumors had already told me. It was there that he told me about killing a man who planned to kill him for being his father’s son. It was there that he confessed so much to me. It was there when I’d told him about my first kill. No. Not my first kill. It was there that I told him about the first time I could have cuffed and arrested, but I pulled the trigger on the monster instead. He’d raped a little girl and he’d dared me to shoot him, and I just—I did. It was wrong, but it felt necessary. And Kane’s reply had been: Next time, let me do it for you. And he’d meant it, even if, at least back then, I’d told myself he didn’t.

But he had meant it. He’d kill for me. He wouldn’t even ask why. He’d just do it and feel no regret. It’s what he learned. It’s how he survived, in ways no one but me and the cove will ever know. Because that cove holds many a secret we told each other. I could destroy Kane. But he could destroy me, too. What concerns me isn’t Kane. It’s the way Murphy seems to understand us. It feels like he knows more than he should, but then Kane said there’s more to Murphy than I know. Is there a history between them that Kane hasn’t told me?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

That question about Kane and Murphy will be answered by Kane, right here in this very apartment.

With that decision made, I set my concern aside and head down a hallway and into the kitchen, which is, of course, big and glorious, with a giant gray stone island fit for an Iron Chef who is not me or Kane. He has, however, hired a chef to cook for us a few times, and I enjoyed every minute of that eating. The rest of the time, I microwave with excessive skill, even Kane agrees.

Spying the fancy coffee pot on the corner of the counter, I head in that direction and grab the canister next to it and inhale. Oh God. He has the French bean I adore so much. God, I’ve missed this stuff. I start a pot and open the fridge to find a big container of strawberries, which Kane knows I love. The man buried a body for me, and he even buys me strawberries. It’s hard not to see that devotion as just a little appealing. I open the freezer and there is Haagen-Dazs strawberry ice cream. I grab it. “My God, I think I’m I love with this man again.” Those words are out before I can stop them, and I set the ice cream on the island.

“Okay, Kane,” I call out to his many recording devices, “if you’re listening or watching me right now, which I’m sure you are because that’s the kind of sick fuck you are, I didn’t mean that literally. I’m not sure where we are right now. I might still hate you. I do still hate you.” I open a drawer and pull out a spoon. “The coffee and ice cream are pretty nice touches, though, I do have to admit, but you always did do that Latin, smooth operator stuff. I know how you are. I know who you are, and it’s not all strawberries and ice cream.” I grimace. “And Jesus, I’m talking to a camera like it’s fucking Kane.”

I set my ice cream and spoon aside and walk to the coffee pot, starting my brew, and with my ice cream melting and my coffee percolating, I head back to the living room, grab my bag and the file and head upstairs to the third level, which is Kane’s bedroom. I step inside, and I don’t even think about stopping to look at that massive gray-framed bed. I know he records this room. He won’t be watching me stare at the bed we used to fuck in. Often. We did that often. I miss that, too, but I get a lot more work done when I’m not always distracted by being naked with Kane Mendez.

Therefore, I can’t move back in here; I won’t. It doesn’t matter that Murphy already thinks I have. This is far more complex than what Murphy wants. I walk right past that very big, very comfortable bed and head straight to the door on the far wall, entering the room that Kane built for me—my Purgatory, the place that I exile myself until I solve a case. He wanted it here, so I’d be closer to him. I scan the perfect version of the same room I have setup at the beach house. It’s round, the walls covered in a film-like material that I can write on. There are pushpins and moveable boards in various places. Of course, there’s a desk and a chair, but there are also two more chairs and a wall of the best forensics books in existence that Kane gifted me. Books that I read when I either had a brain freeze, I’d never admit to anyone, or I just needed inspiration. Kane reads them too. I try not to think about that being inspiration for him, too.

I sit down at the desk, and there is a brand-new MacBook waiting for me. I know it’s brand new because the box is sitting beside it. Opening the lid, I find a screensaver of our painting downstairs, and I instantly know the password, as Kane knew that I would: The Cove.

Ready to analyze all my case data, something long past due, I head back downstairs to arm myself with my snacks. Once there, I fill a huge insulated mug with coffee, punish it with cream and sugar, in a way that would make Kane cringe, before snapping up my ice cream. Soon, I’m behind my desk, keying up my email and sipping my coffee, while my ice cream softens even further. I don’t want to have to work for it when I eat it. In fact, I’ll drink it over fighting it like it’s a concrete block. I do enough fighting without fighting my ice cream, too.

Soon, I’m staring at my inbox, which is my business email, merged with my personal email, and apparently, Viagra can make all my troubles go away. It certainly gives you a lift. If only Umbrella Man would have gotten this email and tried it. I scan through all the junk and find the messages from Tic Tac and Roger. Roger’s subject line references his now closed case. I’m not sure I can write off anything to do with Roger, considering he was used to get me to the scene of the first known murder, but for now, it’s right to the back burner for him. With that decision, I begin going through Tic Tac’s notes, even printing them out. There’s a stack of notecards on the desk, and it’s time to do my thing. I need a card for every person involved in this case. I start with victims:

Mia Moore

Shelly Willit

Detective Williams

Ralph Redman

I have notes from Tic Tac on who saw each person last, and for all but Ralph it was a co-worker. I write those names down as well. For Ralph, the last person is complicated, considering his open courtroom suicide.

From there I move to anyone with a connection to the case. Of course, all family members who I know of get a card, now, and as they are discovered. That isn’t many people which is probably intentional. Killers don’t like complications. Big families mean complications. I have a list of friends and close co-workers not already indexed that all get cards. For now, I also include Mia’s boyfriend, North Madison, Thomas Miller, our creepy forensic guy, and every person on our team, even the meek little girls. Then there’s Houston, Murphy, Roger, Kane, and even me, as all of us have something to do with this case and might connect a dot. Kane through me. Perhaps me through Roger.

I pin them all up on the board and pick up my ice cream, staring at the names, which usually triggers ideas and revelations, but I get nothing. I do have a moment when I consider Murphy’s worries over my ex-partner, and I consider giving him a card, but right now, he’s not yet involved. As for him being a suspect, he knows me well. He’s well connected to me, and he even knows Roger, but Greg is in his early thirties, and I reject him as a po

ssibility. He’s not this guy. I know him.

Greg is not the Umbrella Man.

The end.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Setting Greg aside as a suspect, I consider others. And I keep considering. I’m a whole lot of blank space. I wonder how the dumb people in the world survive the blank space. It’s fucking suffocating. I need to make something happen. I write out another card: The Umbrella Man.

I pin that on its own board. I then start writing a card for every word that comes to my mind about this monster; it’s what I call my rapid-fire process, freeform, wild in the wilderness. If I write it, it stays. Whatever comes to mind, no matter how illogical it may seem, stays on the list. And so, I begin:

Asshole

Stalker

Creep

Smart

Genius

Manipulator

Evil

Law enforcement

Small dick

Short man

Big ego

Control freak

Insecure

Confident

Lean

Fit

Strong

Skilled with weapons

Knowledge of the press

Little bitch, not to be confused with little dick

Single white asshole

No tattoos

Good looking but short (this would rule out Thomas and Houston, but I still want both on the list)

Over forty