Graham appeared before me, closing the distance between us in a blink. I took one look at his stony expression and knew that his anger was burning perilously close to the surface. Still, I made not a peep as he shrugged out of the wickedly cool, wickedly faded leather jacket he was wearing and dropped it around my bare shoulders. It settled against my skin, still warm from the heat of his body and smelling faintly like him, spicy and woodsy. There was something so heartrending about the gesture, I found myself fighting the urge to cry again, my eyes prickling precariously as they stared into his.
“Graham,” I whispered brokenly, not knowing what to say to him. Not knowing whether to hurl myself into his arms or turn on a heel and run. “I don’t— I’m—”
“Not here. Not now,” he cut me off. His large hand found mine beneath the jacket that shrouded me, fingers twining so tight I thought my bones would turn to dust in his grip. “Later.”
With that slightly ominous vow hanging in the air, he started walking after the detective, towing me along at his side. Lacking any other choice in the matter, I followed him into the graveyard.
Chapter Nineteen
I should’ve been a tennis player. Love means nothing to me.
- Gwen Goode, contemplating a different career path
I had many things in life to be thankful for but, on that particular morning, I was most thankful that hadn’t eaten breakfast before my run. Because if I had, after walking through the cemetery crime scene, keeping close to Graham’s side the entire time, it might’ve come straight back up.
Earlier, when I’d first spotted Eliza, I was in a state of shock, my system barely processing the gruesome sight before me. My second viewing — during which I saw not only Eliza’s body, but the symbols traced into the grass and the warning message spelled in dried, bloody letters across the tomb on which she was splayed — was infinitely worse. So much worse, in fact, I began to sway on my feet as the world went black around the edges of my vision.
I promptly found myself swooped up into Graham’s unyielding arms, one beneath my knees, the other around my shoulders. I’d begun to protest as he carried me away from the crypt, straight to his Bronco, but one fleeting glance at his expression had me clamping my lips shut and swallowing down my words.
“Stay,” was all he’d clipped after depositing me into his passenger seat, slamming the door, and bleeping the locks. As if I was going to run away. Run? I could barely stand, let alone run.
He’d stalked straight back into the cemetery, disappearing behind the makeshift privacy screens, not returning for nearly a half hour — during which time I’d made the executive decision to keep the The Gallows closed for the day. I texted Hetti that I had a personal emergency and dispatched her to put a sign up in the front window explaining that we’d be back to business on Tuesday morning. The barista, never one for emotional displays, didn’t demand an explanation; she merely did as I asked without pushback, not ten minutes later sending a picture of the shop’s front door, where a piece of printer paper bearing several words in her bold, chunky handwriting was taped against the glass.
C U NEXT TUESDAY
Not the nicest missive to our shunned customers, but I had bigger things on my plate than politeness. Namely, scrubbing the memory of Eliza’s lifeless body from my retinas, where it seemed indelibly scored, and clearing my name of a potential murder charge. I had a feeling Cade wanted to bring me down to the station — actually, it was more than a feeling, seeing as when he and Graham emerged from the cemetery and marched back toward the Bronco, they were engaged in what could only be described as a battle of wills. Cade gestured more than once toward the Bronco — toward me — and his handsome face was set in a seriously unhappy frown as he listened to whatever Graham was saying. I was no lip reader, but I’d stake my right kidney that the words, ‘She’s not going anywhere with you, Hightower,’ left the uncompromising line of Graham’s mouth, along with a few choice expletives not fit to print.
Whatever he said, it was effective. Detective Hightower shot one last dark look at me through the windshield, then stormed toward his unmarked cruiser. He’d no sooner turned his back when Graham slid into the driver’s seat. He didn’t say a word as he started the engine, immediately punching buttons on his steering wheel to dial a number at the top of his contacts list. The Bronco rolled slowly after Cade’s cruiser — which was flashing its lights to encourage the lingering crowd to disperse — as ringing filled the cab.
After just two short rings it connected. A smooth feminine voice greeted, “Gravewatch Securities, this is Brianne speaking. How many I help you today?”
I stiffened a bit, a vision of the perfect blonde receptionist in her perfectly coordinated outfit flashing in my mind. Goddess, even her phone voice sounded polished. I caught myself wondering if she and Graham had ever explored a relationship outside the bounds of employer-employee, and quickly banished the thought to the dark recesses of my brain. What was I, jealous? How ridiculous.
“It’s me,” Graham said by way of greeting.
“Graham.” Brianne’s voice warmed noticeably as she recognized his deep rasp. I tried not to clench my teeth. “What do you need, sir?”
“Something’s come up. Unexpected, but priority. I need you to shuffle some of my other shit around, and help put out any new fires that crop up while I’m dealing with this.”
“Anything,” she agreed instantly. Breathlessly. “Anything you need, I’m on it.”
I’ll bet.
I rolled my eyes as I looked out my window. I was getting the distinct impression that Brianne’s favorite job benefit was watching Graham’s rock hard ass as he strolled out the front doors of Gravewatch every afternoon. Not that it was any of my business who stared at his — annoyingly fine — ass. An ass I had caught myself staring at on more than one occasion in the past, before I remembered my sanity and yanked my eyes up to safer targets.
“Holden and Hunter should be inbound this afternoon. They’ve been keeping eyes on the O’Banion situation, finally got a lead on our target this morning,” Graham informed Brianne. “If that lead pans out, tell them to use the holding cell. I don’t want the exchange going down until I’ve had a chance for my own face to face.”
I’d gone still at the word O’Banion, my head whipping in Graham’s direction. He didn’t even look at me, focused on guiding the Bronco down the final stretch of the narrow side street, then turning out onto the main drag.
“Call Sawyer,” he continued. “He pulled a surveillance shift last night, but he’ll come back in. Tell him I need a full sweep of the Old Burying Point area — traffic cameras on Charter Street, exterior shop and restaurant CCTV, the works. I want all of it analyzed with a fucking fine-tooth comb, along with the rest of her running route. I want to know if there were any other surprises left for her that we missed, or if these fucks were dumb enough to slip up and show their faces.”
My brows raised. I had a creeping feeling I was the subject of Sawyer’s latest surveillance gig. Normally, this would’ve pissed me off but, seeing as not one hour ago I’d come face to face with a dead body, I let it slide.
“Welles is in New Hampshire finalizing shit with the Feds,” Graham went on. “But he’ll be back by tonight. Loop him in with Sawyer, it’ll go quicker with two sets of eyes.”
I could hear the scratch of a pen — Brianne jotting down notes. When the scratching stopped, she asked, “And Kier? Is he still after that skip?”
“Last I heard — and last I heard was too fucking long ago.” A current of displeasure entered Graham’s clipped voice. “Call him, get a status report. Soon as you can. He doesn’t answer, you ping his phone. We all know Kier can handle his shit, but we also know how he gets when he’s off the grid. Especially when he’s after a skip with this sort of rap sheet. I have too much on my plate to be worried about him crossing lines we can’t walk back. I want a lock on his location by end-of-day. Alert the boys we may need to reel him in.”