“And why was that?”

“Because she was going to his house,” Carter said, turning to look at the psychologist again. “Look, I don’t think we’re getting anywhere.” He grabbed his coat and jacket from the hall tree, then reached for the door. “If I think I need another session, I’ll call.”

Randall just smiled. “Whatever you want. But I think there are issues you need to explore.”

“You know what, Doc? There always will be.” With that he exited, taking the back stairs to the first level. Randall waited, then walked to the very window Carter had stared out of just moments before. The sheriff brushed snow from the windshield, then climbed into his Blazer. As he pulled out of his parking spot in the alley, another client was driving into the small lot.

Randall walked back to his desk and reached into the drawer. With only a quick pang of guilt, he clicked off the small recorder that had taped the entire session.

Sheriff Carter probably didn’t know it, but he had a death wish, one that came with the snowfall. Not only had the lawman lost those dear to him in winter, Carter had experienced more than his share of life-threatening incidents, all in the deep winter months. His own vehicle had slid off the road more than once, and when rescuing a child from a cabin where her parents were having a violent argument, the father, despondent, drunk, out of work and mad at the world, had accidently shot Carter in the leg. Carter had evacuated an elderly shut-in during a winter storm like this one, and as he arrived, the gas heater, set ridiculously high, had exploded. Both he and the woman had survived, surprisingly. Then there was the fishing incident, when his boat had hit a snag and capsized in the turbulent, frigid waters of the Columbia. Another boat had seen the accident and, mi

raculously, had gotten to him in time.

Sooner or later, though, Carter’s luck would run out and his recklessness would catch up with him.

It always did.

Finally the cameras were working again…He stared at his screen and watched through the hidden lens, seeing Jenna Hughes walk through her bedroom, stripping off her sweater, bending as she wiggled out of her jeans, her perfectly round buttocks covered only by lacy bikini panties…black panties cut high on the sides that barely covered her most private of places.

His cock jerked a bit, starting to harden as she stepped into the bathroom, reached in and turned on the shower, then unhooked her bra and tossed the flimsy black scrap of cloth onto a hook near the glass door.

“That’s it,” he whispered, staring at the screen, his mouth suddenly devoid of spit. He heard a moan from the outer room and was irritated. Marnie was waking up. The slut! A schoolteacher who chased after the wrong men in bars…risking everything to get laid. He refused to listen to her while he was watching Jenna. Perfect Jenna. She pulled off her panties, exposing all of her beautiful body, kicking the tiny briefs out of the way, then stopped in front of the mirror to quickly pin her hair up on her head. In the mirror he saw her breasts—large, firm, with pointed little nipples.

Steam was rising from the shower as she stepped inside and closed the glass door.

He was suddenly rock-hard and he let his hand wander down to his own nakedness, to stroke the smooth, cool skin of his erection. Light fingers. He imagined Jenna’s hands upon him, the sensual wonder of her fingers…and then her tongue. Touching. Stroking.

“Ooooh.”

Jenna?

No, Marnie.

From the other room. Waking up.

His erection withered.

It was time to deal with her.

CHAPTER 28

Carter hadn’t been kidding when he’d called the last session with Dr. Randall “bullshit.” They were getting nowhere, slogging through the same old emotional territory time and time again. He’d initially contacted the psychologist because of his grief, upon the advice of the District Attorney, but his sessions had been spotty at best—and uncomfortable.

He’d stopped the sessions altogether a few years back, but had started them up again this winter because the nightmares had returned with the cold weather. Horrible nightmares where he saw David’s face beneath the ice, staring up at him and moving silent lips as the air left his lungs, and even darker images of Carolyn, her bloodied face and body trapped in her crushed car. While David remained silent in the dream, Carolyn’s voice droned over and over, “Why, Shane, why? Why can’t you forgive me…?”

A good question.

Had it been Carolyn’s fault that Shane had spent more time as a deputy than as a husband to his wife? Had it been her fault that he hadn’t been ready for a child she wanted so desperately? Had it been her fault that Shane had encouraged her to go out with friends without him, when he’d been working? Had it been her fault that Wes Allen, an artist at heart, had known just how to make a lonely woman feel wanted?

“Son of a bitch,” Carter muttered, closing his mind to the image that had haunted him for years: the thought of Carolyn and Wes in Carter’s bed on the nights when he was on duty. His hands gripped the wheel as his cell phone blasted.

He picked it up before it chirped a second time. “Carter,” he barked.

“It’s Hixx. We’ve got ourselves a single-car accident on Southeast Rivercrest—1973 Toyota registered to Roxie Olmstead.”

The reporter. Close to his place.

“Is she all right?”

Tags: Lisa Jackson West Coast Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net