Page 42 of Nocturne

She turns to face me, a spark in her eyes. “Afraid I can’t take care of myself?”

“I’d be a fool to think that.” I meet her gaze directly. “But everyone needs backup sometimes.”

“Is that what you’re offering? Backup?”

No. What I want to offer is something far more primal, more complicated. I want to follow her up to that apartment, push her against the wall, and finally taste those crimson lips. I want to lose myself in her body until these crude, obsessive thoughts are purged from my system. I want?—

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now,” I manage. “Perhaps neither of us should be, with everything that’s happening.”

“You’re telling me you’re scared?”

I am,kitten. But not of what you think.

Something shifts in her expression—a softening, a decision being made. She reaches across the seat, her hand coming to rest on mine, cool fingers against my skin sending electricity up my arm.

“Come up, then,” she says, her voice low. “Just for a while.”

The invitation hangs between us, tempting, dangerous.

I should say no. I should keep a professional distance. I should remember that she’s connected to my case, to Cohen’s organization through Marco. That she herself might not be who I want her to be.

I almost reach for the doorhandle, but something stops me.

It’s that last thought.

That there’s something about this woman—no matter how enticing and beguiling she is, no matter how badly I want to take control and fuck her pretty little brains out—that is bad news. Maybe even dangerous. And that she might not have my best interests at heart. I’d wager she only has one person’s best interests at heart, and that’s her own.

Can’t blame her for that either.

“Maybe some other time,” I tell her. “I’ve got work to do. I’m sure you do too.”

She nods, a cool expression coming over her face, as if slipping on a mask. Perhaps I’ve hurt her with my rejection. I think I hurt myself too. At least I know my dick is throbbing in protest.

We part ways and I watch until she disappears into her apartment before I decide to drive back home to take a shower. The warm water manages to knock some sense back into me, and I come in the stream to the thoughts of pinning her in her dressing room and going at her with feral abandon.

The phone rings just as I’m stepping out. I wrap a towel around my waist and answer. “Callahan.”

“They found another one.” Coleman’s voice crackles through the line, grim and urgent. “Six months ago, similar MO. Why don’t you stop by the station?”

My blood runs cold as I adjust the receiver. “Another body?”

“Already accounted for. Cold case so far. Sylvia Winters. Found in Westlake Park, partially drained of blood, strange marks left on her skin. She wasn’t bisected but it was still pretty grim. They buried the file, but one of the evidence clerks remembered it after seeing the Short case photos.”

“I’m on my way.” I hang up and get ready, no time to waste. Another possible victim means a pattern. A pattern means I’m getting closer to the truth.

I start the car and pull into traffic, heading toward the station. Coleman is waiting for me in his cluttered office, a thick file spread across his desk.

“Sylvia Winters,” he says without preamble, pushing a photograph toward me. A young woman with honey-blonde hair and a serious expression. “Twenty-five. Waitress at The Coconut Grove. Found in Westlake Park six months ago.”

I scan the police report, looking for details. “Cause of death?”

“Exsanguination. Body was partially drained of blood, though not as completely as Short’s. Puncture wounds. Multiple lacerations to the torso and limbs. Some cigarette burns appeared ritualistic in nature.”

“Symbols?”

Coleman nods, sliding over another photograph. The image shows markings carved into pale flesh—not exactly the same but similar to what Lena and I had seen on the warehouse wall, though less elaborate than what was done to Elizabeth Short.

“Like a practice run,” I murmur.

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