Romance: JADEN: An MMA Fighter Romance (Bad Boy Tattoo Romance) (New Adult Pregnancy Short Stories) (58 page)

Whoever this man was, and whatever he may or may not have done, he had shaken the people of their town in a way that had never happened before. For the first time since nearly everyone had left, there was change, and even if William was responsible for the murders, he had done this town some good. Change was something that their town needed.

“A lawyer?” Candice asked to distract herself from such strange thoughts.

“Yes. I was to defend the innocent and charge the guilty. Strange, how fate has these ways of twisting things around until they are a crude perversion of what we once wanted to be,” he continued. Candice chanced a glance upwards and met William’s gaze. She let out a breath in a quick, rush as she did so, not bothering to hide the disproportionately loud noise in all of the quietness. His gaze was so very intense.

“Strange, indeed,” Candice said, her voice once again weak. “I wanted to travel the world and see all of its wonders,” she said, and wondered why on earth she was telling this stranger—possible murderer—such personal things. She had never even admitted this to her own parents. They would have simply laughed and told her to reconsider her dreams. “Instead, I am stuck here, in a town with no name that never changes. The inhabitants are ghosts of themselves, mere shells, and I am the only thing that seems to want to change, to move on. I tried to get free, I am in a mail order bride catalogue somewhere.”

William cocked his head to the side once more, as he had in the alley, but this time, there was no chilling effect down Candice’s spine, because there was a smile tilting up the corners of William’s mouth. “What an odd way to describe your little town,” he said.

Candice shrugged, tightening her fingers around the bars. “It is how I see it.”

“I should like to see the world as you do,” William said, and he was suddenly much closer—when had he gotten that close?—and Candice did not have time to jerk herself back as his fingers wove through the bars and into her hair. “Maurice only killed girls who wore lockets, and after killing them, he would cut a lock of hair off and stow it in the locket for safekeeping. If you can find the lockets, I can identify the girls’ hair, and if you can find them in his possession, that will be enough to charge him of the crime.” His voice was still soft, as if they were discussing something much more pleasant, much more intimate, and after a moment in which William’s fingers wove through the flaxen strands of Candice’s hair, his knuckles brushed her cheek in a very deliberate motion. “I am happy to have such a beautiful and intelligent woman helping clear me of these charges,” he murmured. “And perhaps I will have to find that catalogue when I get out of here.” Not if, when. He was putting so much trust into her; Candice nearly choked on the responsibility, but it was not that sentiment that held her in place.

Candice could not move. Her fingers were wrapped too tightly around the bars of the cell, and her cheeks were made of flames. She wanted—what did she want?

Wrenching herself away, Candice babbled something about having to get home before her father, and closing down the tavern, and bustling out of the jail quite quickly.

But she did pause outside, leaned against the wall where no one could see her, where she was completely engulfed in the darkness, and pressed her hand to her cheek, just as William had done, and did not bother hiding the secret little smile that bloomed across her face.

###

Over the next few hours, Candice searched the town for signs of the man, Maurice Quincy. She felt certain that she would be able to recognize him if she saw his face once again—regardless of the blood that had covered it—because only so many people had bruises on their faces in the little town of stagnation.

She asked all of the patrons as she closed up the tavern for the night if they had seen the man, bribing them with the money that she had gained from her apparent turning in of the murderer of the girls in Denver, so many miles away.

She shivered as she thought of those girls. Perhaps she had been lucky to have been skipped over. If she had gone to Denver to live with a husband who had ordered her out of a catalogue, she could have very easily ended up in one of their places, and then what would her father be? A wifeless, daughterless man with only his tavern to tend to in a land of ghosts.

If Maurice Quincy was the real killer, she might be next, as might the few girls that remained behind. They were all in danger if she did not find a way to stop him and free William of these false charges and catch the real killer in time.

Thus far, she was having little luck. Candice blew out a sigh of frustration as she counted out a few gold pieces to her latest drunk who claimed to have seen the man, but did not remember where or when.

Candice leaned against the bar and considered the rows upon rows of alcohol. She could nearly see her reflection in the glass behind it, distorted by the multi-colored liquids, the bends and turns of the glass bottles. She tapped her fingers against her forearm, chewing at her lip as she waited for a brilliant idea to come to her. She had talked to every patron she could catch before they left, and no one seemed to know the whereabouts of the man.

He would have to get a room to stay, would he not? The locals did not take kindly to visitors that they had never met before—and sometimes even to family and friends—and did not open their homes up to people. He would have to go to an inn—and there were only two in the town that were still in business. One was frequently trafficked and contained the general populace of the rare visitor that happened upon their nameless little town, and it would be smart to go to the one that had fewer visitors. There would be less of a chance of being caught.

Candice nodded to herself and pushed herself off of the bar. She quickly hurried up the stairs to her father’s study and unlocked the door, peering inside. She had not been in here for a long while without her father’s permission, and it felt nearly odd to be sneaking around.

She rummaged through his desk, heart in throat, searching through his drawers to find—“Ah, there you are,” Candice murmured, pulling out the gun. She had never held a gun before, let alone fired one, and her father had never even used it—not to her knowledge, at least. Candice swallowed. Where she was headed, she would need it, if only for intimidation.

Tucking the weapon gingerly in the pocket in her skirt, Candice closed the desk drawer and snuck out of the office, locking the door behind her and placing the key in its proper place above the door. She took in a deep, shaky breath and made her way out of the tavern. It was eerily silent, the last of the locals having left a few minutes ago, and she was completely alone.

The walk to the inn was just as eerily silent. She stopped by the jail once more, not going inside but pausing outside of the window to alert the sheriff to what was taking place.

“I think we may have the wrong man,” she told him.

The Sheriff glanced down at her hand, which was clutched around the barrel of the gun inside of her pocket and raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?” he asked, walrus mustache waving around wildly with each word. He sounded disbelieving, which was not surprising, but insulting all the same. Candice took a deep breath and pinned him with a look she remembered her mother giving her every time she got into the cookie jar without permission and took more than two.

“I know for a fact that the man who murdered these women took lockets from them, with locks of their hair enclosed, I read the reports, sir.”

The Sheriff raised both eyebrows, which were just as bushy as his mustache. “You certainly are well informed, young lady.”

Candice ignored the bite to the words and continued. “There were no lockets found on Mr. Smithson’s person, which lead me to assume that he was set up for all of these murders.”

“Has tending the bar caused your brain to melt?” the Sheriff snapped.

“Sir,” Candice snapped. “I am well aware that you wish for this case to be over, as do I, but I will not see an innocent man go to jail for crimes that he did not commit.” And there is the small fact that I might very well be in love with him, Candice added silently, but did not dare say it out loud.

The Sheriff considered her for several long moments. “What the hell,” he said, shrugging. “I have nothing better to do than watch this buffoon,” he said, throwing a casual hand towards William, who was watching them both intently, face cast in shadow and fingers wrapped around the bars.

Candice nodded to him once as the Sheriff got up and gathered his gun, jacket and badge. William inclined his head, the candle light, edging his face in harsh angles. She thought she saw the slightest hint of a smile, but the Sheriff was out the door before she could be sure, and she followed him without a backward glance at William.

“I will get you out,” she said quietly to herself, unsure if she would be able to keep the promise if she said it loud enough for him to hear.

At the hotel, the Sheriff attempted to keep her from going inside.

“There is only one way for me to find out if this is him or not,” Candice snapped, shoving his arm aside and pushing the door open. Inside, the hall was dimly lit and led to an equally dark lobby. There was no one attending the desk, and Candice did not wait to see if anyone would come. She rang the bell several times in quick succession in a way that would have caused her father to hiss at her to stop being such a nuisance.

After a great deal of shuffling and cursing, a half-asleep man appeared behind the counter, rubbing at his eyes. Candice smiled brightly at him, recognizing him as the man who had asked for a drink earlier that afternoon, before this entire ordeal had begun. “Good evening, sir,” she began.

“D’you want a room?” he asked, eyes flicking between the Sheriff and Candice. Candice blinked several times, wondering what on earth he meant and—oh. That was a mental picture she would never be able to purge from her mind. Inwardly gagging, Candice kept her smile in place.

“No thank you,” she said firmly, giving the Sheriff a dry look. “I—that is, we would like to know if you have a room registered to Maurice Quincy.”

“I am not at liberty to discuss my clients with you,” the man said indignantly.

“Unless you would like to be spending time in the jail cell tonight for obstructing an investigation,” the Sheriff began, but did not have to finish before the man was falling over himself to offer the information.

“Room 204,” he said quickly. “Top floor to your left, it is the first one on your right.” He paused, blinking owlishly at the two of them. “What did you say was going on again?” he asked.

“I did not,” Candice said primly, slipping past the counter and going down the hall to the stairs. The door was easy enough to find, and Candice had little qualms about hammering on it with her fist. She had no doubts in her mind that she would find what she was looking for with no problem, but she had to get past the man first. If Maurice was who William said he was, he could be dangerous, and for the first time since she had gone to the Sheriff’s office, she was glad to have him along.

“Open up,” Candice called, and there was movement behind the door. Stepping back, Candice pulled the gun from her pocket and pointed it at the door. The sheriff made a noise of surprise, but Candice did not stop to look at him. As the door opened, she shoved past it, ignoring the man’s protest and attempt to grab her. She may have a large surface area, but she could still slip and slide through people like water; years of bartending had taught her that, at least.

She was in Maurice Quincy’s room before she knew it, and over by his coat in another heartbeat. As he loudly protested to the Sheriff and tried to get past the robust man, Candice dipped her hand into the man’s coat pocket and pulled out a tangle of necklaces. She held them up to the dim light, letting out a sharp breath as she recognized the gleam of mother of pearl, intermixed with golden and silver polished to perfection, the same kind of locket her mother had given to her right before she had died.

“Mr. Quincy,” Candice said softly, holding the lockets out further so that everyone in the room could see the stray hairs that poked out of each. “I believe that you are under arrest.”

###

William emerged from the building with his head bowed, and Candice stopped herself from running to him. He may not even want to see her now that he was a free man.

She bit her lip and folded her hands in front of her, keeping her feet firmly planted on the steps to the tavern. He may not even see her, but then, Candice was used to being a ghost, something that most people glanced over. She watched William throw his shoulders back and look up at the sun cresting the horizon.

This was the first sunrise he would see in almost a year that allowed him to be a free man, to not turn and look over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being followed. She smiled in spite of herself, and wondered what a freedom such as that would feel like.

As if she had made some sort of sound, William suddenly glanced over at her, and she was utterly shocked by the smile that spread across his face. No one had ever smiled at her like that, or walked towards her so eagerly, almost running. She could not help the answering smile and found that her feet were moving of their own accord, despite her best attempts to keep them planted to the tavern’s deck. They met halfway, the predawn light casting a sort of pale grey sheen over everything.