Dying for Love (20 page)

John forced himself to pull away from Amelia before he did something stupid as hell like kiss her and take her to bed.

For God’s sake, he knew better than to fall for a woman on a case.

But something about Amelia was so damn sweet and vulnerable and . . . sexy . . . that he couldn’t resist.

She had been abused so much of her life that she deserved something good to happen to her. He wanted to give her that happy ending more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

But what the hell did he have to offer?

He pulled away from her. “Show me what he did.” He said “he” although the intruder could have been a woman.

The deep longing and need in her eyes tore at him, but she nodded and released him as if she knew she had to gather her courage.

She let him in the entryway, both of them shaking off the cold as the wind slammed the door shut on its own.

“There, the canvas in my studio,” Amelia said, a slight quiver to her voice. “It was blank when I left earlier.”

He swallowed, tempering his reaction when he saw the word
WHORE
written in red paint, dripping like blood.

“I got a phone call earlier when we were at the hospital. A man’s voice. He called me Viola, called me a whore.”

Shock slammed into John. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her expression crumpled with pain. “Because I was ashamed.”

His heart clenched. “Amelia—”

“You don’t understand. Viola was one of my alters, the promiscuous one. What he called me . . . it was true about her.”

John steeled himself against the anguish in her eyes. “You’re not that person,” he said, knowing it was true.

Amelia sighed wearily. “But I was, John. Viola was part of me and I can’t forget that.”

He gritted his teeth. She seemed to be accepting what she’d done in the past. He wished he had the courage to face whatever he’d done. “Is there anything else?”

She nodded, her eyes flickering again with disgust. “In my bedroom and bath.”

He followed her, anger surging through him at the sight of her underwear shredded across the room.

“The paper—”

“My journals,” Amelia explained. “I kept them for years for therapy. I’ve been looking through them, hoping to find some answers, to learn more about my pregnancy. About the baby’s father.”

She pointed to the bathroom, and he saw the message on her mirror.

Fury railed through him. Amelia did not deserve this.

“I’m going to get a security system installed here right away,” John said. “It may take a couple of days to get my guy out here, but trust me, once it’s in, no one will get past it.”

There was no way he’d let the bastard who’d done this get away with hurting Amelia.

Amelia fought the humiliation washing over her. She’d told John the truth. She had to because she was done with lies and pretending to be something she wasn’t.

If he thought less of her, then she’d accept it. After all, she’d dealt with rejection and ridicule all her life.

He angled his head toward her, his eyes seething, brows furrowed. “Who else knew about your alters?”

Amelia shrugged. “Everyone. My story’s been in the news.”

That meant any lunatic out there could be taunting her.

But the timing had to be important. “Has this happened before?”

She averted her gaze, worrying her lip with her teeth.

John cleared his throat. “Amelia?”

“The other night, I found a teddy bear.” She moved to the closet, stood on tiptoe and raked her hand along the top shelf.

Confusion mingled with fear when she found the shelf empty. Agitated, she rushed past him into the studio and began to look through the canvases stacked against the wall.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice strained.

John followed her, his face contorting into a frown. “What?”

She looked up at him, fear seizing her that he wouldn’t believe her.

“Tell me,” he urged.

She twisted her hands together. “The other night someone left a painting of the cemetery where we looked for my son. There were bones and ghosts floating in the cemetery. It was . . . dark.”

“You didn’t paint it.”

“No.” Her pulse clamored. “I also found a teddy bear on my bed, one that was just like the bear we found in the coffin. Except this one was Bessie’s bear, my child alter, and it had a knife stuck in its chest.”

“But it’s not here now?”

She shook her head, knowing she sounded crazy.

But she had found that bear and the painting just like she’d found the one that night. Hadn’t she?

John phoned Lieutenant Maddison to come to Amelia’s, and his security-specialist buddy to install a system in her house the next day.

While he waited, he took some photographs of the painting, the shredded journals and underwear, and the message on her mirror.

Amelia was visibly shaken and retreated to the kitchen to stare out the window at the unforgiving mountain ridges while Maddison processed her house.

Maddison surveyed the message and the shredded pages. “She kept journals?”

“Yes.”

Maddison arched a brow. “You know her history. Do you think it’s possible she did all this herself?”

John chewed the inside of his cheek. He had to consider the possibility. “I don’t think she did.”

A heartbeat passed, the silence thick with doubt. She’d claimed an intruder had done something like this before, that he’d left a teddy bear.

But it was missing.

“Then you believe her story?” Maddison asked.

He wanted to, more than anything. “Like you said, I know her history and so does everyone in town and half the people across the country. Someone could have done this to make us think she’s unstable so we wouldn’t believe her and I’d stop looking for her son.”

Maddison finished bagging the pieces of the journal along with her underwear. Maybe he’d find some forensics on it to tell them who had broken into Amelia’s.

As soon as Maddison left, Amelia walked back into the bedroom and looked at him, her eyes troubled. “He thinks I did this, doesn’t he?”

John’s gaze met hers. “He’s just doing his job.”

“But that’s what he thinks,” Amelia said. “Do you believe that, too, John?”

He glanced at her hands. There was no paint on them. Of course, she could have written the message or painted that canvas and cleaned up before calling him.

Her weary sigh reverberated in the air. “If you don’t believe me, then why are you looking for my baby?”

Because she needed someone to believe her and help her.

“I do believe you,” he said instead. “And I won’t give up, Amelia, not until we know the truth.”

Gratitude flashed across her face, making her look so damn beautiful that his lungs tightened and his body hardened. He wanted to hold her again.

To kiss her and lie her down and make love to her.

Hunger and need darkened her eyes, their gazes locking for a long moment. Neither one of them had slept, and morning was starting to break the sky, the sun battling through more storm clouds and losing as the grayness swept it away.

“There’s another couple I want to interview this morning,” John said. “They adopted a little boy named Eddie. Let me take you someplace safe while I go talk to them.”

“He said he’ll find me wherever I go. I don’t want you to be in danger, too.”

“Don’t worry about me, Amelia. I’m a professional.”

Amelia’s breath rushed out. “Let me grab a quick shower and I’ll go with you to talk to the family.”

He nodded, then waited in the other room while she ducked into the bathroom. But he had to step outside in the frigid air to cool the heat in his body and keep himself from asking her if he could join her.

Silence thickened in the car as John drove toward the Sweenys’. Amelia looked out the window at the trees swaying in the wind. Ice and snow rained down from the limbs, splattering the windshield, the road slick with ice.

Amelia’s past was shady, but questions about his own nagged at him. Where had he been when she was locked in the sanitarium?

Dammit, that endless void loomed like a pit he’d fallen into, one he couldn’t find his way out of.

The first few months of his amnesia he’d searched for the truth. Had hoped his memory would return on its own.

Was he single? Married? Did he have a family out there looking for him? Did he have children?

What kind of job had he worked before?

And why was there no information about him? How could he be in his early thirties with virtually no footprint in the world?

The only answers that made sense disturbed him even more. Someone had intentionally erased his identity. Maybe he was in Witness Protection, but if so, federal marshals would have been looking for him.

Maybe he was a criminal who’d covered his identity? Or an undercover agent in a secret government unit?

Maybe a unit that trained hit men?

His gut tightened. Emanuel Giogardi, one of the Commander’s subjects, had been trained to be a hired killer.

But if John had been a killer, why would he be so drawn to finding missing children?

He parked at the suburban home belonging to the Sweeny family, hoping to catch them before they left for work.

Mrs. Sweeny was a schoolteacher. Her husband owned his own garage and repaired foreign cars.

Amelia hadn’t said ten words the entire ride. She looked nervous. Hell, he didn’t blame her. Every time she looked at a six-year-old boy, she must wonder if he was her son.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked as they made their way to the front door.

Amelia exhaled slowly, and straightened her spine. “Yes, I’m fine.”

She might look vulnerable and fragile, but she was a gutsy woman. Any kid would be lucky to have her as their mother.

He punched the doorbell, and a woman dressed in a pantsuit with short blond hair opened the door. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Sweeny?”

“That’s right.”

John identified himself, then Amelia. “We’d like to talk to you about the little boy you adopted.”

The woman’s face drained of color. A second later, anger flashed in her eyes. “What about Eddie?”

“We don’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Sweeny, but it is important that we talk. Is Eddie here?”

Tears gathered at the corners of the woman’s eyes. “No, my son passed away a month ago.”