"Greer, wait." Raphael grabbed her arm, jerking her to a halt. She glanced over her shoulder, impatient.
"Raphael, what-" But he held up a hand, his narrowed gaze scanning the foyer, hall, and staircase. Her exasperation vanished, replaced by a concern and burgeoning fear that coiled in her belly.
"You don't smell that?" He edged past her, halting in the living room entrance, again surveying the room.
"Yes," she said, an uneasy apprehension clogging her throat and mouth. But the oily stench of her worry couldn't mask the odor caught somewhere between spoiled food and old meat. "What is it?"
He didn't reply to her question, but instead eased in front of her. "Don't touch anything. Nothing, Greer, okay? Wait here while I go check through the house."
Hell, no. She was right on his heels when he aimed for the back of the place. Scowling, he ground to a halt, glared at her. Maybe he spied the determination on her face because he sighed. "Fine, but keep your arms close to your sides and try to follow directly behind me."
She nodded. They trailed through the kitchen, the den, and back to the living room with no sign of Noah. By the time they climbed the steps and topped the staircase, the odor had grown stronger.
The pounding in her head worsened. And the beige carpet and walls of Noah's second floor shifted to hardwood floors, light blue walls. She blinked and the image boomeranged back to reality. But for a moment she'd traveled to her old apartment. What the hell? Groaning, she willed the pain from bass drum to low drone. She coughed, trying to expel the cloying stench from her lungs, throat, and nose. But it clung to her. Cursing, Raphael whipped off his hoodie and passed it to her, pressing the warm material over her nose and mouth.
Noah's study was the first room on the right. The door was ajar, and on the floor … She swallowed. Blinked. But the view didn't change. Didn't disappear. On the floor, a dark stain pooled just past the doorjamb, obscene and ugly against the wheat-colored carpet.
Raphael's lips moved, but she couldn't hear him above her heart pounding away. He grabbed her shoulders and tugged her in close.
"Greer," he said, his voice coming to her as if spoken through rolls of cotton. "Baby," he said, his lips grazing her ear. "Please wait here. Let me go in first."
Numb, she shook her head. No. She had to see. Had to know.
"Please, Greer." He closed his eyes, pressed his lips to her forehead. "I don't want to know you saw whatever is in there. Please wait here."
"I can't," she rasped, her voice muffled behind his jacket. "I need to see."
He lifted his lashes, his expression flattening until only a blank mask remained. "Keep that"-he nodded toward his sweatshirt-"over your mouth and nose."
Not waiting for her consent, he turned and approached the study door. He skirted the large stain but didn't go into the room.
He didn't need to. And neither did she.
She cried out, stumbled backward, her hands stretched out in front of her as if she could ward off the scene laid out before her. Her spine struck the opposite wall, and she crumpled to the floor, her legs no longer capable of supporting her. Dimly, she heard Raphael call her name, but she didn't respond. Couldn't. Couldn't speak, couldn't tear her eyes from the room.
The room where a man sprawled across the floor, blood surrounding his body like an oil spill. She narrowed in on the black-and-red joker on the back of his right hand. The same tattoo that had inked the skin of her assailant from the restaurant.
She focused on it.
Because if she continued staring at the floor and the hand of her dead would-be kidnapper, she wouldn't have to look at the body of her best friend swinging from a beam above.
…
Forgive me … I love you … didn't mean to hurt you … wanted you to see me, to run to me …
Though the words had been printed out on a piece of paper, Noah's voice reverberated in her head, reading the suicide letter like an audio recording on a constant loop. And if she closed her eyes, his voice accompanied the image of his body swinging slowly back and forth from the exposed beam in the ceiling like a macabre soundtrack.
Suicide.
It was too soon for an official determination, but the detective whom Raphael seemed to be familiar with had come to them outside Noah's house and relayed what they'd found. After questioning them, Rider-had that been his name?-had gently explained that it appeared as if Noah had shot the man on the floor, then hanged himself. Greer's objection had been immediate and fierce. But then Detective Rider had handed her a paper that had already been sealed and labeled in a clear plastic evidence bag.
The typed letter had been addressed to her, and in it Noah confessed to killing Gavin because he'd been cheating on Greer, that she had surprised him by arriving home, and so he'd knocked her out. He also admitted to the harassing letters and being behind all the acts that followed, including the kidnapping and attempted murder of Raphael. He'd done it for love, hoping she'd turn to him for safety, and they could finally be together. And when Raphael stepped into the picture, he'd tried to remove his rival for her affection. After their argument, he'd realized she didn't love him, and he'd decided to end it, including taking out the man he'd hired to kidnap her and kill Raphael.
The letter hadn't been signed, but everything-Gavin's murder, and the person and motivation behind the threats-had been tied up in one neat bow.
And she didn't believe any of it.
Greer shivered on the couch, pulled the edges of the blanket tighter around her body. God, she was cold. Almost as if the blood in her veins had crystallized into ice, freezing her from the inside out.
Maybe I'll never be warm again.
Gathering the blanket around her like a robe, she rose and crossed the living room to the floor-to-ceiling window and stared into the darkness beyond. Flames from the fire Raphael had built after they'd returned to his house reflected in the glass, and the trees surrounding the house appeared ablaze. Usually, she would've studied the tableau before her and itched to paint it. But not today. For once the urge didn't surface, submerged beneath the grief and fury that beat within her like a second heartbeat.
Another shadow joined the others in the window's reflection.
"What did you find out?" she asked Raphael.
He remained leaning against the living room's entryway, watching her. She turned, and though he didn't move, his gaze roamed over her from the haphazard knot she'd scraped her hair into after a shower to the white socks peeking out from under the blanket's edge. He crossed his arms. Maybe to keep from reaching out and shaking her. Or holding her. God, did she need him to pull her in and cradle her against the hard, solid lines of his body. In his arms, she could breathe, could release some of the agony that swelled within her to the point of bursting through her skin.
But she didn't blame him for not making a move toward her. Since they'd left Noah's house almost four hours ago, she'd been like a block of ice: unreachable, untouchable, impenetrable. She'd stridden to her room, showered, and settled on the couch. Raphael stayed with her for a long while, but he'd retreated from the room about an hour earlier. To his basement, his lair. And though she'd known him for only a short time, she would bet the trust fund she would come into at thirty that he hadn't been just watching another Bruce Willis film.
"Please, Raphael," she said, hitching the cover higher over her shoulders.
He straightened, stepping into the room. "His name was Adam Morgan aka Adam Smith aka Aaron Smith aka Aaron Chandler. Nicknames include Ace, A, Twist, and Tag. He's been convicted of driving under a suspended license, petty larceny, breaking and entering, and yes, there is also a defacement of property charge on his record, too," he added, acknowledging her guess about that particular crime. "He was released from a Delaware prison five months ago after serving five years on the B&E. All of his crimes were in either Delaware or New Jersey. Which would explain why Leah wasn't able to find out anything. He hadn't been busy in Boston long enough to be arrested here or familiar to the cops."
"So if most of his time was spent in and out of Jersey or Delaware prisons, how did he and Noah meet? What's the connection?"
"I wish I could answer that for you, baby. But I can't. I'm afraid only Noah or Adam would be able to." He spread his hands out, palms up, and she couldn't remember seeing him this helpless. This lost for answers. "Greer, I know you don't want to believe Noah could-"