Skin Deep (27 page)

“Not exactly,” she hedged.

Kellan’s pause held no small measure of concern. “You okay?”

Isabella exhaled, her pulse pressing hard against her eardrums in the quiet, moonlit room. “Not exactly.”

“I see.” He moved his hand from her hip to her back, his touch never faltering. “Tell me something about you, Isabella. Tell me what’s making you not okay so I can help you.”

She hitched, her heart in her throat. But he’d trusted her enough to let her in tonight, to let her see things he’d kept locked away for a decade.

She trusted him, too.

“Do you remember the story I told you? About my cousin Marisol?”

“Yeah.” Confusion clung to his tone, but God, now that she’d started, Isabella couldn’t stop the words.

“She was abducted eleven years ago, a couple of weeks before her fifteenth birthday. The man who kidnapped her kept her for three days, sexually assaulting her multiple times before strangling her and leaving her body in the basement of an old apartment building.”

Kellan went utterly still behind her. “Jesus,” he whispered after a minute. “Isabella, I’m so sorry.”

Despite the shock in his voice, his breath was warm on her neck, his chest so strong and solid and
there
behind her that everything she’d tried so hard to forget just kept coming out.

“I remember thinking it had to be some kind of mistake. That she’d walk through the front door at any minute with a big smile on her face and ask why we all looked so worried. But instead, the police came to her parents’ house on that third day. They’re the ones who knocked on the door, and they weren’t smiling.”

“That’s why you became a cop, isn’t it?” Kellan asked, understanding dawning in his voice. “Why you throw yourself into the job so hard? You want to protect people like Marisol.”

Protect
. The irony rang in Isabella’s ears hard enough to hurt, and she followed them with a bitter laugh. “I became a cop because I didn’t protect my cousin at all. Her death was my fault.”

A pause opened between them, lasting for a full breath before he said, “What are you talking about?”

Guilt rushed up with the memory, heavy enough to crush her chest, but the rest of the story—the part that no one knew except for her family and the detectives who had investigated Marisol’s murder—poured out of her on a tide of sadness.

“We were supposed to go to a party that night, some high school thing to celebrate homecoming.” God, how stupid it had all seemed in hindsight. How easily she could have made a thousand different choices that would have led to a different outcome. An outcome that wouldn’t have ripped out her family’s heart. An outcome where Mari would have lived.

Closing her eyes, Isabella continued. “I’d been invited by this guy I really liked, but my parents made me promise to take Marisol, too. She was so excited. She’d just started her freshman year, and a party like that was a big deal. I was supposed to pick her up.”

She could still remember the night as if it had been a minute ago, the feel in the air that wasn’t warm enough to be summer anymore, but not quite chilly enough to be fall. At the time Isabella had thought that night would be perfect. How stupid she’d been. How
careless
.

“But I didn’t,” she said, the words wobbling traitorously through the dark of Kellan’s room. “I told her to walk to our house instead so I could have extra time to get ready. I promised her it would be no big deal, that she’d be safe. I
promised
, and she believed me, and because of that, she died.”

“No.” Although the protest was little more than a whisper, it cracked through the room as if Kellan had shouted it.

A sob worked upward from Isabella’s chest, and God, she hated herself even more. “Yes. I—”

“
No
.” Grabbing her shoulders, he swung her to face him. “It’s not your fault. Just like you weren’t responsible for Angel’s death, you aren’t responsible for Marisol’s either.”

“But I promised.” Tears burned behind her eyelids, and she slammed her eyes shut to ward them off, to no avail. “She was my best friend, my
closest
friend. If only I’d gone to get her…I should have protected her.”

“Isabella, you didn’t know.” Kellan cupped her face. “You couldn’t have known. You were only seventeen. Marisol’s death is a terrible thing, a thing that shouldn’t happen to anyone. But you didn’t kill her, Isabella. This isn’t your fault.”

He thumbed away the tears spilling freely over her face now, and oh, she wanted to believe him so badly. “I miss her,” Isabella said. “I miss her so much.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” Kellan wrapped his arms around her, and just like that, she broke apart. Lying in the safety of his embrace, Isabella let out the guilt that had wracked her for so long. He never budged, just held her and took the brunt of her grief as it tumbled out of her in wave after wave. Finally, her bone-deep cries subsided into softness, and he pulled back to look at her with so much certainty, she ached.

“I’ve got you too, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

This time when he said it, Isabella believed him.

K
ellan sat
in the lobby of the Thirty-Third precinct, watching the controlled chaos around him with no small amount of awe. The place hummed with way more activity than a Wednesday afternoon should allow, from the steady stream of uniformed officers moving past the front doors to the near-constant ringing of the phone in the main office space to the desk sergeant barking orders at damn near everyone walking by. Kellan supposed the firehouse wasn’t too much different from a visitor’s perspective; in fact, Sinclair’s daughter, January, ran the office at Seventeen much like her father ran his intelligence unit—no bullshit, all the time. Still, the Thirty-Third was kind of a daunting place if you didn’t have backup.

“Hey!” came a familiar voice Kellan was growing all too accustomed to, and okay, maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all.

“Hey,” he said, standing to greet Isabella as she descended the last of the steps to the lobby. She looked just like she always did, a few wisps of hair defying her ponytail to frame her face, jeans hugging her curves, and her SIG and badge at her side. But damn, she was the most beautiful woman Kellan had ever clapped eyes on, and the pang in his gut grew twice as strong when she pressed to her toes to brush a kiss over his cheek.

He cleared his throat, although it probably didn’t do much to kill his idiot grin. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was at loose ends after catching up on my sleep from yesterday’s shift. Thought I’d bring you lunch.”

Isabella’s eyes brightened at the sight of the carry out bag from the Fork in the Road. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Club sandwich and fries, extra pickles. Oh, and a giant vat of tea.” He held up the oversized cardboard cup—the biggest one the guy at the diner could find, as a matter of fact—unable to cage his laughter as her expression went from happiness to full-on bliss.

“You’re a peach, you know that?” She took the bag and the cup, tilting her head toward the staircase leading up to the second floor. “Why don’t you come on up? We just got the reports back from CSU on my apartment. Hollister and I were about to dig in.”

Surprise made Kellan blink. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

Truth was, he’d been climbing the walls at his apartment. If he could help them get closer to nailing DuPree? Even better.

“Of course I’m sure,” Isabella said, matter-of-fact. With a flash of her badge and a quick jaunt through the metal detectors, they climbed the steps to the intelligence office. The place was mostly empty, with three of the five desks vacant. Kellan followed Isabella over to one covered with case files and photographs and abandoned tea cups, where her partner sat a few feet away in a similar pile of paperwork.

“Hey, Walker.” If Hollister was shocked to see him, the guy didn’t show it, although the guy probably wore a poker face as an occupational hazard.

“Hollister. Good to see you,” Kellan said, leaning in to shake the guy’s hand.

“Kellan’s not on-shift today, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt if he kept us company while we shuffled through these on our lunch break.” Isabella pointed to the file folders, and Hollister sent a frown in the same direction.

“Only if you want indigestion, my man. These are about as useless as a screen door on a submarine.”

Isabella’s brows shot up before sinking in disappointment. “They didn’t come up with
anything
?”

“’Fraid not,” Hollister said. “No fingerprints, no hair, no fibers, and no boot prints on the hardwoods. The slashes to the couch and mattress were made with an undetermined serrated weapon, of which I can think of about two dozen varieties off the top of my head, and the marker used to write the message on the mirror is the most widely manufactured in the country. Truth? We’ve seen serial killers less methodical than this fucking guy.”

“Dammit.” Isabella slumped in her chair. “So we have nothing on the break-in and nothing on the fire.”

“Nope. Maxwell and Hale are still finishing up that assault case from this morning, but they checked in to say they’ve heard exactly zip on the final report from the fire marshal.”

Kellan’s gut dropped. “Yeah, I pulled the reports that both Gamble and Hawkins made from the call. Looks like the water probably trashed any evidence you might find that DuPree or any of his guys were in the house when the fire started.”

“Great,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “So we’re back at square one.”

“Not necessarily!”

The words snagged Kellan’s full attention, and he turned toward the top of the stairs, where the intelligence unit’s tech guy was hightailing it into the office.

Isabella lasered her sights in on him, her eyes sparking with hope. “Capelli, tell me you have something.”

“That I do. Grab the boss. He’s gonna want to hear this,” Capelli said. A few seconds later, when Sinclair had come out of his office, the guy continued. “I just got some background on our guy, and it’s a doozy. Ah—”

He paused to look up at Kellan, his eyes darting to Sinclair in obvious hesitation, and Kellan got the message loud and clear.

“I can go.” He shifted to find his feet, but a pair of protests stopped him mid-move.

“No.”

Kellan processed the
holy shit
pumping through his veins at the fact that Sinclair’s voice had been the one to join Isabella’s.

“We don’t normally disclose case details with members outside of the unit, and that rule still stands,” Sinclair said. “But given the extenuating circumstances of Walker’s involvement and the fact that he could still be a potential target, he might as well stick around for the update.”

He turned to level Kellan with a frosty stare, and ooookay, guess the guy hadn’t quite gone the forgive-and-forget route on the mouthing off Kellan had given him a few days ago.

“Provided that you keep everything discussed here strictly confidential,” Sinclair added.

Kellan dipped his chin in a deferent nod. “Copy that.”

Capelli blinked, but quickly got back to business. “Right. So I had a friend over at the FBI field office run some background checks for me, to see if there was anything higher up the food chain than I had access to. Turns out, he got a hit on one of the government databases in New York.”

“New York?” Isabella asked, stepping back on the linoleum in obvious confusion, and yeah, sign Kellan up for the sentiment, too. “I never found any record of DuPree living or working in New York.”

“
That
is because he was a minor at the time. The hit is from the Department of Child and Family Services in Syracuse, and the case file was sealed, which is why it took a couple of days’ worth of digging to find.”

“Sealed why?” Hollister asked. “Even if DuPree was a minor at the time, the record should still at least show that files were charged against him.”

Capelli’s brows went up. “Not if he was the victim.”

Kellan’s jaw unhinged. No way had he just heard that right. “DuPree was the
victim
?”

“Yep. Looks like there was an investigation into abuse by his mother. A school guidance counselor noticed what she listed as ‘abnormal behavior’, so she requested a follow-up from DCFS. DuPree initially accused the mother of abuse, but it looks like he later rescinded.”

“So no charges were ever filed?” Sinclair asked.

“No,” Capelli said, shaking his head. “And mom fell off the radar not long after that. The notes from DCFS are sparse, but the school counselor was pretty adamant that DuPree was potentially dangerous.”

Isabella froze beside him. “Dangerous how?”

Capelli’s pause definitely wasn’t lost on Kellan, or probably anyone else standing in the intelligence office. “According to this, he was ‘substantially anti-social, distant, displayed a lack of empathy for those around him as well as a lack of remorse for wrongdoings.’”

“Wrongdoings,” Hollister repeated, and this time Capelli’s pause lasted longer.

“The list is pretty long, but the
Reader’s Digest
version is that he threatened two teachers with bodily harm, followed through on similar threats made to at least a half a dozen students, and although it was never proven, he was looked at pretty hard for vandalism to the school principal’s car and for killing a neighbor’s cat.”

Kellan couldn’t think of a single curse word that adequately covered this. “The guy is a freaking sociopath.”

“At first glance?” Capelli asked. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Sinclair said. “I want our profiler on this, right now. Moreno”—he turned to look at her, and oh hell, Kellan knew the look in the sergeant’s eyes couldn’t mean anything Isabella would like—“I want you in protective custody.”

“Sam,” she said, her brows winging sky-high. “Come on. DuPree has been church-mouse quiet for three days.”

“Yeah, and seventy-two hours ago he was turning your furniture into kindling. I mean it. This guy is unhinged.”

Before Kellan could open his mouth to suggest that Sinclair wasn’t wrong, Hollister beat him to the one-two. “Moreno, he’s kind of got a point. It sounds like DuPree is off the deep end, and he clearly has a hard-on for trying to get to you.”

“Then let him try,” Isabella said, jamming her hands over her hips and planting her boots into the linoleum. “Look, I understand he’s dangerous, and I’m not saying I won’t be careful. I’ll still check in and take extra safety precautions. But if DuPree is antsy enough to make a move, we’ll have him right where we want him. We might not get him any other way.”

Annnnnnd fuck. Now Isabella had a point, too. Kellan didn’t want her in harm’s way—the thought alone made him want to throat-punch someone. But she was a cop, which meant her job came with a certain amount of risk. While he wasn’t on board with her taking unnecessary ones, at some point he had to trust that she’d be both smart and okay.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve got Isabella’s back,” Kellan said. “I know you guys are her team and everything, but when she’s not with you…I promise to keep her safe.”

For a minute, nobody said anything, the silence stretching thinner and thinner. Finally, Sinclair ran a hand over his crew cut and turned back toward Capelli.

“I want something from the profiler by morning, and keep on the hacker. We still might get a nugget on these parties or these murders. Moreno, I’ve never minced words and I’m sure as hell not going to start now. I don’t like this. That said, I have to trust that you’re making the right call. But you
will
be taking every extra security measure under the sun.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Good. Now let’s get back to work. And Walker?” Sinclair waited for him to make eye contact before adding, “You’d better.”

“I do,” he said, and they were the easiest two words he’d ever spoken.

J
ulian DuPree was not
a patient man. He stood in the middle of his penthouse, looking down at the city lights signaling a Friday night in full swing, while everything around him was quiet and still.

All because Isabella Moreno had miraculously and unexpectedly grown some fucking restraint.

The silence around Julian grated on his nerves, his anger writhing under his skin. One week ago, everything was normal. He’d stood here in this exact spot, watching every depraved whore he owned getting used and abused just as she should.

No room for filth!
screamed the voice in his head, and he slipped his fingers to his temple in order to shut it up.

But still, it came.
Filth needs to be punished! I’ll beat it out of you, you vulgar boy!

And the voice had tried. She’d taken the switch from the cupboard in the kitchen, just as she’d done all the times before. The house was far from any neighbors, and no one had visited since the woman from DCFS, who Julian had told about the voice. He’d paid for that, having to take it back and say it was a lie after the voice had given him the scars. But a year had passed by then, on the night the voice got the switch. Julian had been bigger then than when she’d first started raging about the filth. Biding his time since she’d given him the scars. Planning. Waiting for the right time to kill her.

And then he’d beaten her to death in that kitchen, snapping every last one of her bones before dismembering her and burying her bit by bit in their backyard.

Julian exhaled, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt as he examined the city through the wall of windows. Detective Moreno had led the RPD to his doorstep, a doorstep which he prided himself on keeping covered. He was meticulous, he was smarter than all of them, and therefore he didn’t get caught. But now he was being watched, his parties on hold, and his pent-up need to inflict pain was growing urgent.

He wanted to hurt her. In the worst way possible. He wanted to take everything from her, as she was doing to him.

But the detective wasn’t just staying away from Julian, sending her pig of a boss to try and question him instead. She was well-protected. Walker never left her side, and while the man was the worst sort of brute, he was also highly trained. If Julian tried to take them both, he’d sustain casualties at the very least. Casualties meant mess, and mess meant loose ends that could get him caught. He needed another way.

He needed to separate them. To get Detective Moreno to act brashly, and alone.

It was time to up the stakes and end this game, once and for all.