Page 23
Story: Lust (Seven Deadly Sins #2)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ROMAN
F uck Amos Kincaid for screwing up my perfect revenge. Not only has he a daughter that is like nectar to a bee, but he’s now got me doubting everything Blake and I worked on. I can still taste her salty tear despite the bottle of beer I drank when I came to hide out in the office. And I can still smell her on my skin even though I showered. It’s a quiet kind of torture.
I flick the papers on the desk in front of me away, pissed that I can’t find anything on this so-called John Clark slash John Smith. It was obvious when Kincaid told me the name, it would be impossible to locate a single John Smith in a world where that surname is as common as a cold.
I don’t care if Kincaid isn’t the killer, the man still as to answer for the things he’s done, and I intend to start with how a man like Kincaid has a child while no one around him or in his past as Warren Burns knows of any woman he was close to.
I go back to the file in front of me, but all I can see is Sydney’s face as I pinned her to the wall. Devastation. I know what that feels like—it’s been the only real emotion I’ve felt since Annabel died. My phone pings, even though it’s almost 1 a.m. Picking it up, it’s a message from Oz.
OZ: I got a hit on a vehicle reg outside the church.
I hit call, and he answers immediately. “What have you got?” I ask.
“Yeah, hello to you too. What are you doing up at this time?”
I sigh. “Figuring out how we fucked up so bad. But give me the details.”
“We didn’t fuck up, Roman. We worked with what info we had.” When I don’t bother replying, he gives me the details of the car make and reg and the owner.
“And this car was parked outside the church at the time Kincaid was attacked?”
“Yeah, man. I went back a few days too, and it’s been there almost every day.”
“Almost every day?” I question.
“Accept when Kincaid was out of town. Which is suspicious as fuck. Unless the guy?—”
“Followed Kincaid back here,” I say, finishing his sentence for him. “Okay, go back and see where else this car has been in the last month or so. And, Oz?”
“Yes, boss,” he says expectantly.
“Find me a John Smith linked to Kincaid or Burns.”
“I’ll try.”
I slide my phone onto the desk and pick up my drink. I needed something a little stronger than beer and opened a bottle of bourbon.
I go over the victims’ names, the ones we know about, again. Something Kincaid said in the hospital comes back to me and I call the only person who can give me access to what I need.
Finding a serial rapist and killer with no clear type or identical MO every time is making our job impossibly hard. It’s what has kept him from having the old bill on his arse and connecting the victims all this time. But with Kincaid revealing he knows the guy, I’m beginning to think this started as something personal.
“Well, well, well. What is it you think I can do for you at this ridiculous time of night, Stone?”
“As if you were sleeping,” I snark back. “I need a solid contact in homicide who can get me some info.”
“And what makes you think I can help? Did you miss the part where I’m not a cop anymore?” I hear a grumbled “Fuck off, Stone!” in the background.
“Nice to see someone is as grumpy as always. Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, and I know you still have some friends on the force.”
She sighs. “Annabel?” I grunt. “Stupid question, huh. Fine. I might have someone. Send me what you need, and I’ll see what they can do.”
“I owe you one, Rox.”
“Yeah, you fucking do. I’ll be in touch. Now fuck off, Stone.”
I can’t help laughing at her friendly farewell. I spend the next hour putting together details for Rox’s contact, then send it to her via a secured email.
I’m staring out the window, my back to the door, when I sense I’m no longer alone.
“Where is she?” I ask without bothering to turn around .
“In her room.” Feet brush over the carpet as he enters the room. “If you knew all this earlier, why didn’t you stop it before we went too far?”
“That’s like asking an addict why they need their next hit. One taste of Sydney Kincaid was all it took.” He appears in front of me, leaning against the window ledge, arms crossed. “Said it yourself, Blake.”
“I did. I wasn’t wrong,” he says, and I finally look up at him. “Are you sure Kincaid isn’t our man?”
I nod, swallowing down the last of my bourbon. “Enough to make me question everything we know.” I rest the glass on my knee and spin it.
“Did he really ask you to protect her?”
“Yep! And I know he’s holding back. He gave me a fake name, an alias, for the real killer, but he refused to give me anything more. How the fuck does he expect me to protect her if I don’t know who I’m looking for?”
Silence fills the room for a couple of minutes, then Blake steps forward, resting his hands on each arm rest, caging me in like I did to Sydney. “Then make him tell you.” Blake arches a brow.
I level a glare at Blake as my mind whirs with several ways I could force Kincaid to tell me what I want. The only real way I can see him giving it up is by using Sydney.
“We’ll take her to see him in the morning.” He nods, confirming he had the same idea. I put aside my feelings over involving Sydney because guilt isn’t something I’m accustomed to. My life doesn’t allow for that type of emotion, you own your choices, even if they are a mistake. Blake leads me to bed with a silent promise of fucking my anger away. It’s not therapy level appropriate, but it’s what we do. It works for us. And I have a feeling it’s going to be something Sydney could get on board with.
Table of Contents
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