Scorned Read online

  “Why? It’s not an especially fun time to relive.”

  “Sorry, but I need to know who was around you and what was going on.”

  She sighed. “I guess I had mostly the same staff. You already met my bartender, Lex. He’s been with me longest. Then there’s Victor and his twin sister Valerie—she waits tables. Her best friends Dixie and Fran usually work all their shifts together. The ladies are nursing students at the community college in Rubyvale. I guess now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve added a few new waitresses. Oh—there’s also the kitchen staff. Julio, but everyone calls him Cook. Uncle Ray and Tommy help him. Ray’s not really my uncle. I’m not sure how he came to be called by that name.” She scrunched her too-cute nose.

  “Were you dating anyone?”

  “Not on my staff. But I did date Moody.” Her pinched expression was nearly as pained as when she’d brought up the snakes. “Remember at the council meeting when Mark Wells brought up our contract with Universal Oil?”

  “Yeah.” Jackson drove her car into the bar’s near-empty lot. They didn’t open till seven-thirty. Long shadows stretched from the cypress-lined swamp over the bayou’s glassy black water. “Moody is the owner’s son. You met him last night.”

  “That kid putting moves on you?”

  “At twenty-seven, he’s hardly a kid, but we used to be an item. My dad and his were frat brothers at Louisiana State. Growing up, we took family vacations together. My mom and Moody’s thought it would be cute if we ended up together. They were sorority sisters.”

  “What happened to break it off?” He pulled alongside a mud-splattered red pickup, then killed the engine.

  “Not sure. Nothing dramatic. More of a slow death—kind of like a plant you forget to water. He was always busy with Universal. I built this place and then the wedding venue. Now that he’s here in town while the offshore rigs are being built, I’ve seen a lot more of him, but I’m just not interested.”

  “What’s your gut feeling? Do you think he could be behind all of this?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “He lacks the passion. You said it yourself, whoever is behind last night’s flaming tray and the snakes and your car fire had a considerable amount of emotion fueling his actions. Moody and I fooled around, but nothing between us was ever serious—at least not for me.”

  “Are you sure he felt the same?” Jackson fought to keep from clenching his fingers into fists. At the time, he’d assumed the pretty boy had been just another bar patron. Now that he knew Moody and Miranda shared significant history, the guy had just earned a one-way trip to the top of Jackson’s suspect list.

  Christ… Even their names were cutesy. Had that been planned?

  Jackson tamped down a rush of jealousy. He irrationally wanted Miranda for himself. What was that old saying? Admitting you had a problem put you that much closer to solving it? Back to the issue at hand, he asked, “Could Lex or Victor have a thing for you?”

  Head bowed, she grinned. “I suppose? But last I heard they were mostly into each other.”

  “Right. In a similar vein, could any of the ladies on your staff be into you?”

  “Jackson…” she sighed. “Could I please go to work? It’s been a freakishly long day, and since this is karaoke and all-you-can eat wings night, I have a feeling it’s only going to feel longer.”

  “Sorry. Let’s go.” They exited her car. “But I’m still going to need your list.”

  While walking side-by-side, she saluted.

  “Boss lady!” High above them, Lex braced his hands on the party deck’s rail. “We have an emergency!”

  Miranda groaned.

  “What now?” Jackson slashed his fingers through his close-cropped hair.

  “You’re gonna need to drive over to Rubyvale! Cook says today’s supply shipment was short on wings.”

  Laughing, clutching her chest, Miranda called back, “That’s the best news I’ve heard all—”

  BOOM!

  Boom, boom, boom!

  A series of explosions, each more concussive than the last, rocked the ground.

  7

  JACKSON DOVE FOR Miranda, wrapping his arms around her while heaving them both to the grass edging the dirt lot. Heat from the explosion, as well as flying debris, landed all around them, but thankfully, not on them.

  Pulse raging, ears ringing above an eerie silence in his head, Jackson didn’t rise until the heat lessened, which could have been a few seconds, minutes or hours. Time slowed as the realization hit him that he was in way over his head. The guy he was chasing was a ghost. Everywhere. Capable of doing anything.

  How many people had he just killed?

  Miranda, alternately screaming and crying, scrambled to her feet. “Lex! Lex!”

  She tore off into the blaze, but Jackson was faster, pulling her back. “Everyone who was in there is gone.”

  “Noooo…” Her face was black from soot. Her clothes covered in dirt and grass and ash. “Lex. Julio and Tommy and Uncle Ray… They can’t all be gone?”

  There hadn’t been many times in his life when Jackson was unsure of his next move, but honestly? This was one.

  After dialing 9-1-1, literally the only thing in his control was holding a trembling and crying Miranda, so that’s what he did, murmuring nonsensical words of comfort into her ear. This case was insane. Most arsonists stayed in their lane. They had specific patterns from which they rarely deviated.

  This guy was all over the place.

  Flaming love notes, snakes, and now explosions and murder.

  Miranda clung to him. “I-I can’t believe they’re gone…”

  “I’m sorry…” He shoved his phone into his back pocket, freeing both arms to wrap around her. After kissing the crown of her head, he said, “This guy belongs to a special breed of psycho.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  A lone car pulled into the dirt lot. Three girls tumbled out, talking over each other while running toward him and Miranda.

  “What happened?”

  “Is everyone okay?”

  She parted from him just enough to turn toward the women he assumed were her waitresses. Tears streaming down her cheeks, streaking the soot, she shook her head. “Lex, Julio. U-uncle Ray and Tommy—they’re all just g-gone.”

  Now, all of the women were crying.

  A fire truck was next to enter the lot, followed by an ambulance and fire department SUV. Two additional ladder trucks lumbered further down the road, but they needn’t have bothered. The fire had blazed so hot, so fast, that it had burned itself out. All that remained of Miranda’s honkytonk had been reduced to a smoldering pile of ash.

  “WISH WE WERE meeting under better circumstances.” Miranda silently watched on while her father, Robert, shook Jackson’s hand.

  Her mother, Genevieve, followed suit.

  “Likewise,” Jackson shook both of their hands.

  “I’m so thankful you’re okay.” Her mother fussed over Miranda, smoothing her soot-covered hair. “Let’s get you into a nice bubble bath. You have plenty of clothes in your old room. I’ll send Betsy up to fetch your items that need washing. Jackson? You look to be about Robert’s size. How about a nice shower and a jogging suit until we can wash your clothes?”

  “Thanks, but I’m not leaving your daughter.”

  Her father cleared his throat. “I appreciate your dedication, but as long as she’s under my roof, Randi will be fine.”

  “Sir,” Jackson tensed. “With all due respect, in light of—”

  “Stop. Both of you.” Miranda turned to her father. “Daddy, I’m a grown woman who just had four employees who were also friends murdered. Modesty is the last thing on my mind. But if it eases your mind, while I shower, Jackson can stand outside the closed bathroom door.”

  “I suppose that will do.” Her father shoved his hands in his suit pants pockets. He was used to being in charge. His word was law. It meant a lot that he’d abided by both
her and Jackson’s wishes.

  “Thank you.” On her tiptoes, she kissed her father’s weathered cheek. To Jackson, she asked, “Ready?”

  He nodded. “But let me go first.”

  “I can assure you,” her mother said, “no one besides our staff has been in our home.”

  “All the same, I’ll be leading the way. Miranda, just tell me where to go…”

  They made it up the grand double staircase that Miranda’s mother had always planned for her to glide down on her wedding day. Judging by her current rate of calamity, she’d be lucky to survive the rest of this day, let alone until finding a man she loved enough to marry.

  “Which way?” Jackson asked at the top of the stairs.

  “Right. Fifth door on the left.” The rough-hewn walnut floor hall was wide enough to house cozy seating groups and serve as a showcase for her mother’s 20th century watercolors. “Sorry about that,” she said midway to their destination. “Mom and Dad still see me as a fourteen-year-old virgin.”

  “No worries. I’m also a proponent of protecting your virtue.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. Bad joke at an even worse time. This it?” He paused before the open door to her teen bedroom.

  “Yep. In all of its lilac splendor.” The purple walls and canopy bed had been her mother’s way of trying to shape Miranda into the quintessential Southern belle, but Miranda had been far more interested in business and serving her community than parties and dresses—not that there was anything wrong her mother’s lifestyle. It just wasn’t fulfilling enough for her daughter.

  “I don’t know…” Jackson winked before sharing a half-smile. “I’m digging the canopy bed. And do you know how to use that baton? I’ve always had a thing for majorettes. Twirling is a dying art.”

  “You’re crazy.” Despite her morose mood, he managed to tug loose at least a partial grin. “Are we going to be all right?”

  “Honestly?” He shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like this. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were dealing with two people. One who informs you of your status as a whore, and the other sets fires. But that’s an awful lot of hate for one small town where from what I can tell, most everyone adores you.”

  “Someone doesn’t…” She turned to the tall white dresser on the wall opposite the bed. When the inn booked larger weddings, she gave up her bungalow to the bride or groom and stayed here. She kept seconds of toiletries and casualwear on hand just in case. From the top drawer, she grabbed panties and a sports bra. She then found a well-worn red campaign T-shirt and yoga pants. “I’ll be right out,” she said before heading into the bathroom, flipping on the overhead light, then closing the door.

  Looking to the tub, she would have longed for a soak, but poor Jackson needed a shower as much as she did. Since he was waiting, common courtesy compelled her to hurry.

  She stripped, careful not to get her dirty clothes on the fluffy white rug.

  Two towels hung on the rack beside the shower, so she opened the door to turn on the water, adjusting it to a relaxing, steamy temp before stepping inside. Under the spray, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying not to succumb to the knot in her throat. But then she saw Cook with a nightly special for her to try. Uncle Ray and Tommy sneaking out of the kitchen for a quick smoke with pretty girls. Lex cracking a corny joke.

  When her bar was destroyed the first time, she’d thought her heart couldn’t bear it.

  Now that it had happened again?

  Tears fell, but mixed with the water, she couldn’t feel the physical release—only the pain. She’d come close to dying. Too close. If Lex hadn’t shouted for her to make a supply run, she and Jackson could have already been inside.

  Is that what the arsonist wanted? To kill her?

  If so, was anywhere truly safe?

  Despite the hot water, the question gave her chills. Eyes open, she washed her hair, leaving in conditioner while running the magnolia-scented soap over her body. When her palms skimmed her breasts, her nipples hardened. Sex was the last thing on her mind, yet if only for a moment, that instant of physical pleasure didn’t just fill her with relief to be alive but resolve to beat this monster. And if after, Jackson was amenable to celebrating life, maybe they could get to know each other without the pressure of their lives being threatened.

  While rinsing her hair, the thought of happier times filled her with hope.

  Once the killer was behind bars, she could breathe.

  She turned off the water, fumbling with the door while reaching to the rack for a white towel to twist turban-style around her hair. Miranda used a second towel to pat her face dry, then arms and chest before wrapping it around her like a sarong.

  Steam from the shower made the room uncomfortably warm and sticky, as if the central A/C couldn’t keep up with the humidity. The oppressive heat felt like a backpack filled with exhaustion and grief hanging between her shoulder blades.

  After closing the shower door, she aimed for the sink. It was probably in her head, but her mouth tasted of smoke and she wanted to brush her teeth. She’d just taken her toothbrush and paste from the drawer when she looked at the still-foggy mirror—and screamed.

  8

  “MIRANDA?” NOT GIVING a shit about her modesty, Jackson didn’t waste time on the doorknob when it was faster to hold his Glock at the ready, then kick the door open.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this unthreatening scene wasn’t it.

  Nothing seemed out of place in the upscale bathroom with its oversized soaking tub, glass-walled shower and private toilet room. Then he saw Miranda curled into an upright fetal position in the space beneath a built-in makeup vanity where the askew frilly chair would have normally been.

  “Hey…” Crouching, holding out his hand to her, he coaxed her to him. “You’re all right. Everything’s okay.”

  Eyes wide and panicked, she shook her head, pointing to a spot behind him.

  He glanced over his shoulder but found nothing out of order save for her neat pile of clothes on the marble-tile floor. Looking back to Miranda, she was still pointing. Insistent.

  “Babe, what am I missing?”

  “The mirror! The open window. He was here. Here, while I was in the shower. How could I have not seen him? He is a ghost.”

  Jackson pivoted his gaze to the mirror that was just foggy enough to read the single word that had been written for Miranda to see… Whore.

  From the mirror, he looked to gauzy curtains waving in a gentle breeze. And then he fought the urge to retch. What the actual hell? He’d never been superstitious or a firm believer in the supernatural, but given this monster’s ability to be in all places at all times, Jackson was beginning to doubt everything.

  He went to the window, finding it more than large enough for a grown man to slip through from the adjacent flat roof. The grounds were well lit, serving as an elegant backdrop to a glowing sapphire pool, yet there wasn’t a single soul to seen. As was the case with most of his kind, this monster must be keeping to the shadows. After closing and locking the window, Jackson used a hand towel to wipe the offensive message from Miranda’s sight.

  “Come on…” Kneeling beside her, he again offered his hand. “Let’s get you dressed.”

  “H-he’s gone?”

  “Yes.”

  She inched out her hand. When he took it, she followed with her body. Despite the muggy night air left by the once open window, she shivered. He helped her stand, and when her towel began falling, he held it in place.

  “I’m scared.” He hated how her voice sounded small and defeated. He stood behind her, almost holding her—make no mistake he wanted to, but not this way. Not with her half out of her mind with fear.

  “Everything’s going to be okay…” From a towel rack behind him, he took a thick terry cloth, blotting the water droplets on her shoulders and back. He tenderly dried her arms, and knelt to smooth the towel up her legs, stopping midway up her inner thighs.
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  A glance up showed her silently crying.

  He rose, pulling her against his chest, holding her until her tears subsided.

  When she finally stilled, he dressed her as if she were a life-sized doll, helping her step into clean panties, unwinding the towel from her hair and dropping the towel around her chest to draw a stretchy sports bra over her full breasts. All the while, he waged a battle within himself to keep his movements clinical. Now was not the time to view her as a woman, but a wounded bird in need of care. Next came a T-shirt, and then he was kneeling again to help her step into yoga pants. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, grazing the sides of his index fingers up her smooth outer thighs.

  Spying a ponytail holder on the counter, while she stood staring, expression weary and what he could only guess was numb, he combed his fingers through her damp hair, then fastened it into a long, loose braid, fastening the ponytail holder around the end.

  “There you go,” he said, trying to force cheer but finding none. “All set.”

  “I-I still can’t believe they’re all dead…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Swallowing hard, she nodded. “Please don’t tell Mom and Dad the arsonist was in my room. I don’t want them worried.”

  “But they could be in danger. They need to know.”

  She sighed. “This is all too much. I can’t think.”

  “I’ll tell them, but as gently as possible. And look, I know this is the last thing you want to think about, but I still need that list of any man in your present or past who might be doing this to you.”

  Again, she nodded.

  “I also need to wash off this soot, so help me find clothes, then I want you to sit with me in the bathroom while I shower. I’m going to give you my gun. We’ll lock the door and window.”

  “Yes.” As if on autopilot, with him trailing behind with his gun at the ready, Miranda led him to her parents’ master bedroom that was bigger than his Denver apartment. She began to enter a closet, but he dodged ahead of her to turn on the light and ensure they were alone.