Wild Justice (10 page)

“I—”

“Monday morning. That’s forty-eight hours from now. I’ll call or you can call, and you can tell me what happened with that suicide, if you want to, but we’ll talk then. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

He exhaled. “Good. Thank you. We’ll talk Monday.”

The conversation left me confused. Confused about what Quinn wanted and, even more, confused about what I wanted. I had only to hear his voice to know that I wasn’t over him. But the relationship was over, for me, because I knew that was the right decision. I cared about him too much to selfishly hold on, if that meant holding him back from what he really wanted—a wife and kids and a house in the suburbs.

After breakfast, Jack left with Owen to check on those snowmobiles. I headed out to shoot and clear my head. The lodge has a gun range, which is actually what sold me on the property. And, if I was being honest, it’s what nearly sent me into bankruptcy, bumping the price far higher than I could really afford. As amenities go, it’s not exactly a basketball court. I paid to have it, I paid to stock it, and I paid to run it, all because I wanted it. It was the kind of thing I’d dreamed about the way others might dream of horses or a private golf course. It’s probably the only time in my life that I’d treated myself to any kind of luxury, and I don’t regret it.

Today I stuck to the indoor range. I have a strip of land for distance, but even though guests are warned to avoid that edge of the property, I get nervous when it’s all first-timers, as we had today. And as my bout with Jack in the woods had showed, short-range practice is always helpful.

I left Scout with Emma. She prefers the outdoor range as well, being not so keen on the sound—or smell—of gunfire in enclosed quarters.

I stayed out there for two hours. By the last thirty minutes, admittedly, I was stalling as I waited for Jack. I’d asked Emma to tell him where I’d gone, and I expected he’d join me. But he didn’t. So I finished up, cleaned up, and headed up.

I was halfway back to the lodge when the smell of Jack’s cigarettes wafted over. I pinpointed the direction and smiled. He was sitting at our old place, the log where we’d talk when he’d first started coming around. That’s also where he’d invited me to join the hunt for a hitman-turned-serial-killer.

It’d been so different then. Jack had been different. The mysterious mentor. The guy I’d only ever seen under cover of night. I remember when he picked me up at the airport for that job. He’d been in his biker disguise, and I’d commented on his aging techniques. And then I saw him later without any disguise, and realized it hadn’t been makeup. Ouch. But that says a lot about how little I’d known of him—I couldn’t even have guessed at his age from our conversations. They’d all been about me. With each passing conversation since then, I’d learned a little more about him. Now I’d learned a lot about him, and while it was hardly his whole life story, it felt monumental.

Some things don’t change, though. Jack was back at our log, smoking a cigarette. Doing it there, not from nostalgia, but because it was a secluded place and I didn’t allow smoking on the property.

I drew close enough to see him through the trees and slowed for a better read on the situation. He was on our log, feet planted apart, elbows on his knees, leaning forward, cigarette dangling from one hand. It’d been dangling there awhile, the ash ready to drop, but he didn’t seem to notice as he stared into the forest. When the ash finally did fall, it hit his shoe, sparks flying. He kicked it off and almost scowled, as if annoyed by the interruption. He ground out the cigarette on the stump. Then he paused, holding the butt. He put it aside and pulled out a fresh one, lit it, and took a long draw.

This wasn’t just a smoke break in the woods. Something was wrong.

Jack went back to his forearms-on-knees pose, gazing into the forest. Then he straightened, legs stretching as he raked his hair back. He almost did it with the hand holding the cigarette, and I heard his muttered curse. He sighed, shifted again, and picked up something lying beside him.

The book. Aldrich’s journal.

He didn’t open the journal. He just drummed his fingers on the cover, then resumed his position, leaning forward, smoking. I started to retreat, but he must have caught the flicker of movement.

He squinted over, cigarette lowering. “Nadia?”

“Sorry,” I called, staying where I was. “I smelled the smoke. I’ll leave you—”

“Come here.”

As I approached, he scooped up the book and whisked it to his other side. Then he stubbed out the cigarette and motioned to the spot beside him.

“A little not-so-light reading?” I said.

“Yeah.”

We sat there in silence. He was the one who finally broke it.

“Yesterday,” he began. “Talked about you seeing Aldrich. Worried it’d bring shit back. You said whatever it was, you’d want to remember. Confront it. Face it.” He glanced over. “That still hold?”

“Of course.”

His gaze locked onto mine. “I mean it, Nadia. Don’t answer lightly. Is there a limit?”

“A limit?”

“Stuff you wouldn’t want to remember?”

“Um, that is a little hard to answer when I have no idea what we’re talking about.”

He sighed. “Yeah.” He paused. “What if I’m not sure?”

“About what?”

“Whether you should remember. If you’ve forgotten? There’s a reason. A damn good reason. I don’t want to fuck with that.” He met my gaze again. “I really don’t.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “So you’ve found something in that book that I seem to have forgotten. If I forgot it, you figure maybe I’m blocking it, because I couldn’t handle it the first time around. But now I know there’s something in there, and I’m going to imagine the worst.”

“What’s the worst?”

I hesitated and shook my head. “How can I even answer that, Jack?”

“Try.”

“I guess . . . I don’t know. The worst? Maybe that I killed Amy. That Aldrich’s cigarettes weren’t just weed, and I didn’t refuse, like I remember. I took it and I went crazy and I murdered Amy.”

He peered at me. “Do you ever even
think
that?”

“No, because even at my most messed up, I know that’s not possible. But you asked for the worst. If it was something as horrible as that, I’d still want to know. Whatever it is, I must know it, deep down, and it’s going to keep gnawing at me until I figure it out.”

Jack dipped his chin in a nod. “It is there. Not going away. Giving you nightmares.”

I took a deep breath. “It’s about Amy, isn’t it? He describes what he did to her, and there are parts I’ve forgotten. Or maybe something I failed to do. Something I let happen. Worse than running away.”

“Amy’s not in here.”

I looked up sharply. “What?”

“There’s no mention of Amy. Not that I can find.”

“And you think that means something. That Aldrich didn’t—”

“No. Think it means he left shit out. This?” He lifted the book. “It’s about what else he did to girls. Raping them. Seducing them.” He paused. “Seducing’s not right. They were kids. Still rape. I just mean . . .”

“You mean that sometimes the girls were willing partners and sometimes they weren’t. Considering that the allegations against Aldrich were all statutory rape, I’m guessing it was more of the former?”

“Yeah. He was good at that. Not sure how. Or why.”

“Teen girls are vulnerable and sexually curious. Same as teen boys. An adult comes along and knows what to do and say, and it doesn’t matter if he—or she—doesn’t strike us as someone a teen would find attractive. Looks have very little to do with it. And when Aldrich was younger . . .” I shrugged. “Amy thought he was cute. A lot of girls did. Even now, I can’t see it because all I see is the monster who murdered my cousin, but at the time, I wasn’t into boys yet. A late bloomer.”

“Yeah.” He stared out into the forest.

“So the journal is rape and so-called conquests, and presumably he left Amy out because describing her murder crossed a line.”

“Didn’t leave her out.”

“What?” I straightened. “I thought you said—”

“He doesn’t talk about killing her. Doesn’t talk about raping her. Skips that. Doesn’t even give her a name.”

I frowned. “What does he call her?”

Jack went quiet, and I was about to ask again when he said, “
The cousin
. Her cousin.” His gaze finally lifted to mine. “
Your
cousin. He wrote about you.”

I stared at him. Then I slowly shook my head. “No, that entry must be about another girl and her cousin, because there’s no reason he’d write about me. It was all about Amy.”

“He calls you by name, Nadia.”

“I . . . I don’t understand. Why would he write about . . .” I trailed off. I looked at the book and I heard Jack’s words again. Not murder. Rape. It was about the girls Drew Aldrich raped.

I shook my head. “No. There’s a mistake. You’re misinterpreting or he’s lying or . . . or something. He never—” I swallowed. “He didn’t . . .” I couldn’t get the rest out.

“Do you want to stop, Nadia?” Jack said. “We can stop right here.”

His words were soft, his voice low. Meant to calm me, to offer an escape.

“No, I do not want to stop,” I snapped. “I’m not saying I can’t handle this, Jack. I’m saying it did not happen.”

A pause, then, just as softly. “Okay.”

I looked at him. “It did not happen.”

He picked up the journal and stuffed it under his jacket. “Okay.” He got to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go back. Forget this.”

I sat there, my gaze fixed on his chest, not daring to raise it. After a second, he started moving away. I reached out and caught the edge of his jacket.

“Jack . . .”

“Hmmm?”

“If . . .” I took a deep breath. “I don’t see how . . . I couldn’t forget—” I swallowed. “What else is there? About . . . that day. Can I read it?”

He slowly lowered himself to the log again. Then he found a page near the beginning and turned it to face me.

“Start here,” he said. “I’ll show you passages. There’s no reason to read the whole thing. It’s not ever going to help. But if you decide you have to, I won’t stop you. I’d just . . .” His gaze locked on mine. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

I nodded and looked down. The entry started at the top.

I heaved breaths and it was a minute before I could speak. “All right. So he thought about it, but that doesn’t mean . . .”

Jack turned the page to another entry.

The page ended there. I reread it. “I don’t . . . I can’t believe . . .”

I didn’t finish the sentence. I
could
believe Amy had set that up. Blinded by Aldrich’s attention. Not setting
me
up—as he said, she hadn’t known that was his plan.

Still it made no sense. I knew what happened. He’d taken Amy to the cabin to get her high and maybe to seduce her, and things went wrong, horribly wrong, and he raped and strangled her while I was tied up in the next room.

“What if it’s fake?” I whispered, my gaze still on the page. “Maybe he wrote it later. Because I escaped and turned him in. Even if I couldn’t get him convicted, I ruined his life. So he fantasized about . . .” Again, I couldn’t finish.

“You can stop reading,” Jack said.

I put my hand on the book, touching the words, as if making sure they were real. My fingers brushed Jack’s. The sudden touch startled me and I flinched. But I didn’t pull my hand back. I could feel the warmth of his hand against my fingertips, feel the weight of his gaze on me. Wishing he didn’t have to show this to me. Wishing I’d say, “Okay, take it away.” Knowing I wouldn’t.

I curled my fingers under, pressing my hand up against his. His fingers wrapped around mine.

“I need . . .” I began. “Whatever part is . . . easiest.”

He lifted our hands off the book, tilted the journal his way, skimming and flipping two pages, and then he stopped. He covered part of the page. I read the rest.

The page ended there.

“Enough?” Jack said. I could tell he didn’t expect me to say yes and when I didn’t, he turned two pages.

This page began midline.