Evil Eye Page 3
Okay, maybe not a castle. He didn’t know where she lived, but he could only imagine considering what the office of Black Rose Investigations looked like. A medieval marvel with gargoyles perched on the roof. He thought the place was a myth until he decided to swing by one night after a few beers at the local bar when he’d just moved to town.
That was right before he was assigned to his first case involving a brutal domestic assault. Right before Scarlett Knight swooped in and pulled a confession from his witness in under ten minutes, making him the laughing stock of the station for weeks.
He still caught shit for it.
He’d gone from being the top of his game, numero uno badass, to needing a woman to do his work.
What. The. Fuck.
And here she was again, already throwing herself headfirst into an investigation that should be left to the police. Where did she get off?
A cloud drifted over the moon, and he squinted to see ahead. The taillights faded from the road. He sped up and braked at the county road where the Jeep had turned.
Where the hell was she going?
He glanced in his rearview mirror, then slowly turned behind her.
Scar might have stolen his first case from him, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to take this one, too.
CHAPTER 5
9:03 p.m.
Scar braked at the rusted metal mailbox and peered at the decrepit wooden shack at the end of the driveway.
She cringed.
A dim light shone through the front window, and despite the mild temperature, smoke snaked out of the chimney.
Ms. Thorne was home.
She took a deep breath and turned onto the driveway. The hair on her arms stood up as she neared the house where Walter Thorne almost beat his wife to death and threatened the life of his eleven-year-old daughter if she ever said anything. Visions of Athena, scared, shaking like a leaf, gripped her. What the poor thing must’ve gone through in that shack.
Scar didn’t see the crime scene, but she’d heard that it was horrific. Blood splattered the walls where pictures had been shattered, and slats of wood had been split by the bat Walter flung in his hands. Ms. Thorne’s teeth speckled the floor. The hair that had been ripped from the librarian’s head covered the couch where she’d scrambled to get away. And in the corner, a puddle of urine, from their daughter, who was so utterly terrified that she wet herself.
Not too surprisingly, after the incident five years ago, rumors ran rampant about the Thorne family. Stories of drug abuse, gambling problems, even theft and burglary. But perhaps the most widely shared rumor was that the old librarian was a witch, who worshiped the devil—and Krestel.
The whispers said that Ms. Thorne was part of Krestel’s secret coven, who met regularly in the shadows, deep in the mountains.
Witch or no witch, it was a good bet that Thorne was the last person to see Fiona.
She rolled to a stop in front of the porch, turned off the ignition and mindlessly rubbed her arms. She could actually feel the negative energy in the air. The house reeked of it.
She glanced at the clock, then back at the house.
Alright, let’s do this.
She grabbed her Glock 19 with a hot pink handle and the letters BRI etched down the side, slid one into the chamber, and slid it into the back of her pants before pushing out the door.
A gust of wind whipped past her carrying the scent of moldy earth. No spring’s budding blooms here. No, sir.
She started to take a step, when—snick.
She stopped, turned, her hand sliding to the back of her pants.
Dead leaves blew across her feet as she slowly looked from left to right. The tall trees that surrounded the house swayed in the wind. A barn door creaked open and closed in the distance.
God, this was the creepiest damn place she’d ever been in her life.
After seeing nothing, and no one, she turned back and walked up the crooked stone steps that led to the front door.
Knock, knock.
A minute passed.
Knock, knock, knock—a little firmer this time.
Finally, the bass knob slowly turned, and the door creaked open. A thin line of light shone through the crack, with one beady, bloodshot eye peering from inside.
Scar narrowed her eyes and met the suspicious gaze, and something flickered in Ms. Thorne’s eyes—she remembered Scar.
Good.
“Ms. Thorne?”
A grunt in response.
“I’d introduce myself but—
In a low, husky voice, “Scarlett Knight.”
She nodded. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment.” She glanced into the house, then back at the bloodshot eye. “If you’re not busy.”
“As a matter of fact,” she coughed a wet, phlegmy cough. “I am busy, especially for someone who tore my family apart.”
“Your husband tore your family apart, not me.”
The door started to close.
“Would it interest you to know that your library has burned to the ground?”
Thorne froze. The corner of her lip curled up, revealing the slightest look of amusement in her eyes.
Yes, Ms. Thorne already knew about the fire, and yes, Scar was now one-hundred percent sure that Ms. Thorne knew something about Fiona.
She stuck her foot in the door. “We need to have a quick chat, Thorne.” They stared at each other for a moment with complete disdain and Scar decided it was time to break out the big guns. “Unless you want me to call Sanders down at the Devil’s Den Gazette and have him post the picture I have of you in the mountains, dressed in head-to-toe black… minutes before Lieutenant Zander Stone’s helicopter mysteriously crashed to the ground, almost killing him and another officer. You know, the same area where Krestel’s coven is rumored to meet?” She paused. “I’m sure everyone would love to know there’s another witch in town… imagine what they’d do. And who knows, maybe you can join your husband in jail for attempted murder.”
Ms. Thorne cocked an eyebrow. “I’m calling your bluff, Miss Knight.”
Scar pulled her phone from her pocket and opened the picture Ace had doctored and sent her not thirty seconds earlier—just in time.
Thorne peered down at the cell phone, studying it closely. After a low grumble, she stepped back, and the door slowly opened.
**
Under the cover of shadows, Luke silently slipped from tree to tree, keeping his gaze locked on Scar.
What the hell was she doing?
He’d planned to visit the librarian after the fire died down, but of course, the nose-in-everyone-else’s-business Knight sister beat him to it.
Damn her.
When she’d left her sisters, who were just beginning to search the woods, and jogged to her Jeep, he knew she was up to something. Why the hell didn’t she just accept his help and allow him to organize a search party for Fiona? He could’ve handled it. The PD could’ve handled it—that was their job.
Not hers.
And what did she think the rumored witch had to do with it? The same freaking witch he was investigating five years ago when Scar swooped in and took over. Again, why didn’t she let him handle this?
He knew why—the women of Black Rose were bull-headed.
Well, so the fuck was he.
He slid behind a tree and peered at the house. Scar was smooth-talking her way inside, he had no doubt about it. He watched her, taking in the dark silhouette of her figure. She wore a low-cut shirt with some yoga symbol he'd seen before—om, maybe?—with a fitted, smooth-as-butter-looking leather jacket, and sexy black leather boots pulled over a pair of tight jeans. As much as he hated to admit it, she sure as hell had a nice ass and incredible face going for her. But she was a pain in his ass. And he would not be hypnotized by her like every other dude in town.
He was stronger than that.
Ten seconds later, the front door slowly opened, and Scar’s curvy body disappeared inside.
He waited a beat, the
n jogged across the soggy yard, his boots sinking in the puddles of mud that were left over from the endless rain they’d had recently. He jumped to the side of the house, pressed his back against the wall and listened.
A breeze blew past him carrying whispers.
He turned toward the muffled voices, edged down the house and stopped at an open window.
Bingo.
He leaned against the wall and settled in to listen to whatever the hell Scar Knight was up to.
CHAPTER 6
Scar wrinkled her nose as she stepped over the threshold—moldy earth, incense, and kitty litter.
Gross.
A black cat scurried across her boots, then another, and another. She counted at least four black cats, staring up at her with gold, shimmering, beady eyes, almost as if they were staring into her soul. Almost as if they weren’t truly cats at all.
A chill ran up her spine.
She knew those eyes. Those were the same eyes of the cats that were found dead, on the doorstep of her office. The same cats placed by Krestel, days after her true identity was revealed.
Coincidence? No shot in hell.
The house was tiny, with only one bedroom, a den, and kitchen. Cracked wooden slats ran across the floors and walls, which were barren. No paintings, family pictures, nothing.
As Scar followed Thorne into the den, she looked the woman over. She wore a long black dress—oddly enough not faded, and without a single speck of cat hair, or dirt, or food, or anything on it. The fabric was ink-black, the darkest black she’d ever seen. Long, grey hair ran in a loose braid down her slightly hunched back. She walked with a limp—a lifelong injury from her loving husband perhaps?
A fire popped and hissed as they stepped into the den.
A tattered couch, reading chair, lamp, and coffee table sat in front of the fireplace. A bookshelf, stacked with old books, stood next to an open window.
Why a raging fire with an open window, she wondered?
As she scanned the books, her gaze landed on a single framed picture. The only picture in the house—a picture of Athena, Ms. Thorne’s daughter.
Thorne slowly lowered herself into the reading chair, grabbed her tea from the table and sat back, eyeing Scar.
“Sit,” she demanded.
Scar glanced at the two cats curled on the couch, grimacing at her, as if daring her to sit down.
Thorne snapped her fingers. “Scat.” The cats jumped off the couch and curled at her feet.
Scar sat and turned toward the woman staring at her with a penetrating gaze. She cut to the chase. “I’m here to see if you saw Fiona this evening.”
Thorne slowly sipped, eyeing her over the rim. “I did.”
“When? What time?”
“Just before closing.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone else in the library?”
“Not that I'm aware.”
“Did you speak with her?”
“No.”
Scar narrowed her eyes. “You saw her but didn’t speak? Why?”
“She was returning books at the front desk. I was in the back.”
“Did she see you?”
“I don't think so.”
“Did you see her leave?”
“No.”
“Could she have still been in the building when you left?”
“She wasn't up front when I locked up.” She took a deep breath, annoyed. “I do a final walk-through of the library every night before closing. I didn't see her.”
“Her car was still out front, Thorne.”
A flippant shrug. “As I said, she wasn't in the building and it was time for the library to close, so I locked up and headed home.”
“You didn't think it was odd that her car was still there?”
“Thought maybe she'd met someone. It's not my job to keep tabs on your friend. My job is to close up the library every night.”
Scar waited a beat, then said, “Did you see a man? Around six-two, baseball cap, black sweatshirt, jeans?”
Thorne frowned. “Actually...” Her gaze shifted to the open window. “I thought I saw someone on the road, walking toward the library as I was leaving.”
“Dark clothing? Baseball cap?”
“Possibly.”
“What time was this?”
“About eight-fifteen.”
“You didn't recognize the person?”
“No, it was dark.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Did you see where they went?”
“No, I turned off the road.”
“Eight-fifteen... what time did you see Fiona?”
“Probably five 'til eight.”
“And you're sure she wasn't in the building when you locked up?”
“Yes.”
Scar exhaled, in deep thought. “What time did you get there today?”
“Just before opening. Ten o’clock.”
“And you stayed all day? Until closing?”
“Always.”
“Did anyone else work today?”
“No.”
“Anyone come in that stuck out? Anything abnormal? Anyone new?”
Thorne took another deep breath. “No, Scarlett, nothing out of the norm.”
“Ms. Thorne, do you know anyone who would want the library destroyed?”
Something flashed in the woman’s eyes, and Scar’s stomach sank. Ms. Thorne might not know where Fiona was, but she sure as hell knew something, Scar was sure of it.
“Why do you assume it was arson, Miss Knight? Could’ve been old wiring. That building’s almost as old as I am.” She smirked, her lips curling around her rotted teeth.
“Almost. Answer the question.”
“No. I don’t know who would want to burn down the building.” The librarian suddenly shifted in her seat—a nervous tick Scar had seen plenty of times before in the interview room.
She leaned forward, and going with her instinct, probed further. “Maybe whoever did it didn’t want to burn down the building… maybe it was something inside they wanted destroyed.”
Thorne’s eyebrows slightly raised. She sipped her tea.
“Maybe they were protecting something.”
Another uncomfortable shift from the librarian. Scar was on to something. She continued, “Perhaps Fiona found something in that library. And no one knows that building better than you do.”
Saying nothing, Ms. Thorne's gaze focused on the fire and impatience shot through Scar’s system. Impatience and annoyance. She set her jaw, lowered her voice. “I suggest you start giving me some answers, Thorne. Unless you want this picture all over town tomorrow. Let’s start with the basics. Are you part of Krestel’s coven?”
“That's quite an assumption. What makes you say that?”
“Aside from the rampant rumors, you wouldn’t have let me step a foot into this house if it weren’t for the picture I showed you. They never found what caused that helicopter to go down, you know. Sounds like witches work to me.”
The fire popped, spitting a red-hot ember onto the hardwood floor. Ms. Thorne narrowed her eyes and looked at Scar. “We all have our secrets, Scarlett.”
“All secrets come to light, eventually. All secrets.”
The librarian looked back to the fire.
Enough of this bullshit. Scar scooted to the edge of her seat, her mind racing, as it did when she sat across from any victim or suspect in the interview room. Tonight she was sitting across from someone with a secret, someone who knew something about what happened to Fiona.
Someone with a heart as cold as ice.
But everyone had a weakness, and Scar’s specialty was finding it and exploiting it. She had an idea what Ms. Thorne’s weakness was, so as she was known to do, she skillfully switched tactics and twisted the conversation to get the answers she needed.
She took one more glance at the picture on the bookshelf, then said, “No one knows Fiona’s missing… I c
an’t imagine the worry and fear a mother would go through if their daughter went missing. Would make her completely sick, I’d imagine.” She leaned forward. “You understand that, being a mother to an only child. A daughter.”
Thorne's head lifted and met Scar’s gaze.
Scar stood, walked to the bookshelf and mindlessly ran her fingers over the leather bindings. “I remember the look in your daughter’s eyes that day, five years ago—fear, sadness, and perhaps worst of all, hopelessness. Everything she knew had changed in an instant. A child’s only safe place, her home, her parents; it was all crumbling down on her. No matter how much you try to hide it, I know that had to be hard for you, too.” Pause. “How is your daughter, Ms. Thorne?”
A few seconds slid by. Eventually, “Gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone.” She lifted her tea and Scar noticed her hand trembling slightly. “Fourteen days now.”
Scar’s eyebrows shot up. “Fourteen days?”
A slow nod.
She repeated, “You said fourteen days?”
“Yes.”
Scar's mouth dropped open while the story from the local news, from exactly two weeks ago, ran through her head.
“…an eye witness confirms she saw a young woman being pulled into a van, after hearing several screams, behind the city park Wednesday evening. Although no one has been reported missing at this time, if anyone else saw the incident, please call local authorities. Again, the vehicle description is a white, four-door, older model van.”
“Have you heard from her at all?”
“No, nothing.” The librarian's tone had shifted now, from indifference to concern. “She left the house and hasn’t come home since. I’ve called her twenty-seven times. Voicemail. I haven’t heard from her at all. Nothing.”
Scar blinked a few times, processing the information. “Do you know where she was going when she left?”
“No.”
“A friend’s house, maybe?”
“You know…” she paused, fighting emotion from reflecting in her raspy voice. “Athena was a very shy kid. Didn’t talk a lot; really no friends. So, no, I have no clue.”