12. Dark Side （Micah）

12

DARK SIDE (MICAH)

I don't recognize the man in the mirror.

It's supposedly me, staring at myself as I shave after a shower, foaming my face up and slowly dragging the razor over my skin as I clean up for work.

But Micah Ainsley doesn't kiss a woman like she's something to cherish rather than break.

Neither is being gentle because as much as I want to mark her and make her scream, I want her to want that even more.

Neither is actually caring at all, instead of having a quick hookup and then parting ways.

The man who made love to Talia yesterday isn't me.

Today, I don't know who the fuck I am, when all I can see is a broken predator.

How does Talia Grey see a man capable of kindness?

And is it possible for someone else to believe something so hard that you start believing it, too?

No.

That old darkness is still there, hungry and ready to shatter her.

Ruin her.

Yet maybe I'm hoping there's a part of her that can accept me for what I truly am, instead of the vampire lover from her dreams.

I swear, I can still taste her and feel her skin on my fingers.

It's fucking distracting.

So much that as I'm shaving off the last bit of foam, I nick my jaw, raising a blood stripe on my skin like a carnelian flower against snow.

I stop, holding the blade against my face, staring at the scarlet drop sliding down my jaw to my neck.

Doesn't that bring back memories?

Blood on my skin in esoteric patterns.

Daddy's little work of art.

Snarling, I shake myself free from my thoughts, get dressed, and check on my dog.

"Morning, old man. How'd we sleep?" I stop to scratch Rolf's head before clipping his leash on and leading him into a morning too bright for my bitter thoughts.

He's cheerful and eager to go, at least.

Every now and then I bring him into the office just for the hell of it.

It's not hard to tell he knows he's about to get spoiled completely.

Sometimes, I think he misses his days as a police dog. Being around the guys seems to liven him up until he's as spry as a pup again, even if he'll never be the world's friendliest ball of woof.

He practically drags me down the street on the walk to work—though he's well-behaved when we stop at Red Grounds to pick up the usual order.

I'm not surprised when the barista slips him a strip of bacon from the breakfast griddle. Everyone loves Rolf.

I usually enjoy their reactions more.

Maybe because I'm realizing how much people project onto the blank canvas I present, and Rolf is part of that image. That fakery, even if I like sharing my life with him.

I really do love this giant furry goofball, but it feels so cynical sometimes, holding together this false identity that makes people smile as I pass by with my fun, yet standoffish German Shepherd.

It never bothered me before.

I came to Redhaven with a purpose.

It's been slow, this grinding game, but someday when it ends, I'll be gone and so will Rolf, leaving this town behind.

Before, I never considered the fact that the people around me might feel betrayed.

The guys on the team. The folks in this town who accept me like one of their own.

Hell, Talia.

She's all I can think about as I coax a tail-wagging Rolf out of the café with his leash looped around my wrist, leaving my hands free for the double load of coffee cups in their carrier.

When the barista waves me off cheerfully, I almost forget to flash my usual polite smile.

How long can a man keep wearing a mask before it becomes his face?

But that mask will get me through this day, dammit.

As I elbow my way into the precinct and everyone—from Mallory to big grumpy Grant—lights up at Rolf.

I let him off leash and he dives through the forest of happy hands reaching out, letting me slip into the background.

I drop off coffee cups on respective desks and cruise by Grant's desk to snag the topmost folder labeled ‘Newcomb, Brian' before dropping down at my own desk with my coffee pressed to my lips.

"Hey," I call over my shoulder. "Is Raleigh forensics doing a full workup on this, or are we handling it on our own?"

Grant looks up from sneaking Rolf the deer jerky he thinks I don't know he keeps in his desk. "We're on our own for now, since homicide is possible but not confirmed. They'll get us the autopsy data, but the crime scene's on us. We good on photos? Storm's coming in by this afternoon and any evidence is gonna get washed out by evening."

"Damn." I thumb through the photos in the folder, then lean forward and jiggle the mouse to wake my computer. I pull up the digital case record, scanning through the additional photographs. I also have the images I took and need to finish uploading to our system. "Think we're good, but I'll take my lunch to head back up there and take another look. Might help to see it with fresh eyes."

Lucas hasn't stopped scratching under Rolf's chin since the moment we walked in, leaving the dog's tongue lolling out.

He pauses now, frowning. "You really think we're looking at a homicide?"

"Only other person who could've been with him had an alibi. The girlfriend." Even as I talk, I'm digging my phone out and transferring the notes and witness statement I took into the Redhaven PD system. "They came here from California for a vacation. Hiking and photography. He went out the day before, she didn't. Janelle Bowden vouches she was in their suite sick all day. So, finding the second set of footsteps without a police report about discovering a body?" I turn to Mallory. "Not one 9-1-1 call all day?"

Mallory sighs. "Nothing but people complaining about their neighbors' music. I was so bored I even unlocked Ray, and I can't stand that little twerp."

"Still have no clue what any of that means," Grant rumbles.

"Liar!" Henri teases, leaning over Grant's chair and propping his elbows on top of Grant's head. "You just don't like thinking about our sweet Mallory playin' her dirty little games with her sexy anime boys, eh?" He glances over his shoulder at Mallory and winks. "Ain't nothin' slowing you down, gorgeous. Keep at it."

Mallory giggles, blushing and tucking a spiral of her silver-grey hair back into its bun. "You're always such a flirt, Henri."

Grant rolls his eyes, then shrugs Henri off. "I'm not a goddamned armrest, Frenchie. Move. "

"Okay, peanut gallery." I swivel my chair back to my screen. "I'm going to actually work the case while you spoil my dog."

"I thought spoiling your dog was part of the job? He's a police vet, after all." Lucas grins shamelessly.

"Pretty sure that's my job, but Rolf doesn't mind, so I'll allow it," I mutter, already focused on the photos on my screen.

Grant hefts himself up from his chair and makes his way over to my desk with his slow, bearish stride. He braces his hands on my desk, leaning over next to me and frowning at my screen.

"Besides the footprints, what else do we have? Motive? Suspects?"

"Nothing yet," I grind out, but I'm lying. I very much have a murdering fuck in mind as I squint at the heel prints and indentation measurements. "No one in Redhaven even knew them, no recent altercations. But ."

That but has everyone in the room listening in.

Even Rolf pricks his ears up, swinging his head toward me.

"The girlfriend said he went out there to take photos," I say. "She last heard from him the night before. So, the night before he had his camera. What did we not find in his bag or on his person?"

A few breaths suck in.

"Mother fucker, " Lucas growls.

Henri rubs his chin, his friendly air fading into quiet focus. "Perhaps he saw something he wasn't supposed to out there. He photographed something that wasn't meant for prying eyes, and the person who pushed him took the evidence."

"Must've been all they cared about," Grant adds, his brows lowering until his entire face is a thunderhead. "Didn't take his ID or his phone. No attempt to conceal the body or hide who it belonged to. The Jacobins?"

"Only folks out there, usually," I answer vaguely. I don't want them mucking up my leads, and I inwardly apologize for the misdirection. "Of course, besides Culver, we've never seen them stoop to murder. Sure, they'll light up your ass with buckshot for getting in their way, but generally that's it. It's the Arrendells who do the real killing around here."

The entire room goes silent, turning that over.

I trace my thumb along the curve of that clearly defined half-moon heel print. From the soil firmness, imprint depth, stride length, and the narrowness of the foot, I have a good idea.

I'd say a woman, about five-seven to five-nine.

Average weight, roughly.

And I can already imagine one woman who fits that description perfectly, and who'd wear shoes that would leave just this kind of print.

Eustace Jacobin.

The crime scene also isn't far from where Talia and I staked them out.

Yeah.

That's food for fucking thought, all right. A lot to chew on.

Just what did poor Brian Newcomb see that he wasn't supposed to?

Why would she kill him?

I swing my chair to look at Grant.

"Let me take this," I say. "I know the hills around here pretty well. I can get in and out without being noticed. I'll keep you guys posted if I find anything new."

With a dubious grunt, Grant rubs the silver-shot brown scruff of his beard. "You always work alone. Dunno if this is a one-man job."

"It is for now, Captain. We need stealth, not force." And I need them out of my hair. One wrong move, and they could undo everything I've been working for when I feel like I'm on the verge of something big. "The second I need backup, I'll loop you right in."

"Gonna hold you to it." Grant eyes me like he knows damned well I'll probably try to manage everything on my own anyway.

He's right.

But we don't need to say it out loud.

I flash him that quick, practiced smile. "Okay. I'll head out and have another look at the crime scene. My witness notes are in the system if you want to check them out. The girlfriend's staying a few days in case we need her. Her sister should be coming in to be with her."

"Got it," Grant says and trudges back to his desk, letting Rolf sniff his hand in passing.

I take another minute to enter more notes.

I'm a little on edge, and I feel like I'm racing not just against the impending storm, but something else.

Something big and mean and unnamed, looming on the horizon.

Maybe I'm imagining things.

Making connections that aren't there because I need to believe all these years of work, of patience, of lying in wait will actually pay off.

But I can't shake this feeling that something big is coming.

And when it breaks, it could take Redhaven down with it.

I finish up my notes and stand, summoning Rolf with a click of my tongue.

Even though he's languishing in all the treats and attention he pretends not to enjoy, he doesn't hesitate to go bounding up, breaking free from Mallory, who's abandoned her post at the 911 dispatch station for a belly rub.

As I'm attaching Rolf's leash, though, the creak of old hinges makes me look up—only to blink as the door to Chief Bowden's office drags open.

Damn.

I didn't realize he was here, considering he's been calling out for days on end.

He's clearly been in his office since last night.

From the looks of it, he slept in there.

He's bleary, his face dotted with stubble and his uniform shirt hanging open over a thin white undershirt that barely covers his ample belly. His hair sticks up everywhere.

Looks like he slept rough, and he's got a hand behind him on the small of his back. It's probably aching when the leather chair in that office isn't too comfortable to sit in, let alone sleep on.

Yawning, scratching at his face, he hobbles toward the bathroom.

When he notices all of us are staring at him, he freezes.

"Uh," Henri says. "Chief? Everything okay? Lookin' a touch rough there, sir."

For a second, tired irritation flashes over Bowden's face before he gives us his familiar ‘aw, shucks' smile.

"Had a bit of a tiff with the missus," he says. "Forgot one of our anniversaries. Worst thing is, I don't even know which one. First date, getting married, six months? I dunno." His grin feels a little too fake. "Janelle put me out and told me I could find somewhere else to sleep until I wised up, so I did."

Lucas grimaces. "Damn, man. I'd say you shoulda checked into a hotel, but…"

"Yeah. I wasn't too welcome in my own establishment." Bowden slaps his thigh and lets out a little guffaw. "No worries. She'll forgive me by dinner, and I'll be back in my own bed by midnight. Ain't the first time. My lady's one hell of a spitfire when she wants to be."

Janelle Bowden.

Our version of Martha Stewart Lite.

She's got a backbone, sure, but I'd never call her a spitfire.

And considering our conversation yesterday, I don't believe the chief's story about why he got put out for a hot minute.

Still, I hold my tongue, just watching him.

I don't miss how Rolf tenses under my hand, and how intently he's watching the chief, too.

Maybe he's just picking up my own nerves. Or maybe he senses something more in that mind reader way dogs have.

Because there's something off about the chief.

I can see it in how his gaze sweeps the room, looking flat above his goofy smile, checking to make sure we're buying his load of crap.

How he stops as he meets my eyes—and his own harden before he moves on.

The edge of his mask is starting to peel.

The kindly old chief he pretends to be, well on his way to retirement, who wouldn't hurt a fly.

I can't quite see what's under that mask just yet.

But as he shrugs with another self-deprecating laugh and shuffles into the bathroom, I can't shake it.

I need to have another heart-to-heart with Janelle Bowden.

Before I have that talk, I need to have one last look at our crime scene before the rain hits.

The once-bright morning sky has turned into a brooding wall of clouds. I walk Rolf back home so I can change. Standard-issue uniform shoes aren't the best for hiking the hills.

Half an hour later, we're setting out again, slipping through trees that have the cool smell of an oncoming storm. The leaves turn up, showing their silvery undersides in the wind.

Rolf throws back a curious look for about the tenth time.

"What? I'm not thinking about her that much." His ears perk and I sigh. "Okay, dammit. Only a little —and you're taking that secret to the grave, old man."

We make good time, despite my mind drifting back to the hottest sex of my life with Talia Grey.

Soon, we break off the trail, about where the guys left police tape tied to a few trees as a marker. We spill out across the grassy slope leading up to the edge of the cliff.

Evidence markers are everywhere, the footsteps the same.

Nothing's been disturbed.

Slowly, I make my way to the spot where Brian Newcomb would have fallen and look down at the cliff while Rolf leans against my leg.

There's nothing left of him but evidence markers and a dark stain on the rocks.

Even that will be gone after the storm.

I wish I could say the same about the crows. There are three of the little black-winged bastards today, staring intently from an overhanging branch.

Reminding me I'll never stop thinking about Jet.

About how I found my brother, this shell of a man who was nothing like I remembered. No longer the big brother who'd step up and take the blows from our father's fists so they wouldn't touch me.

Sometimes our old man got to me first anyway, his little ghost-white mutant of a child, but not if Jet could help it.

Mikey, get out of the way! Let me. I'm stronger.

I used to beg him to stop, pulling on his arms.

If Dad was going to hit me no matter what Jet did, he should spare my big brother, so only one of us had to take the pain.

Jet wasn't having that shit.

He'd just grin at me, crooked and confident, even with his face busted and covered in bruises and ugly red split skin.

Jet, stop! He'll kill you! I'd scream.

Nah, Bro. If you go down, I'm going too.

I'm good. You're good. It's all good.

It wasn't all good.

It wasn't all good at fucking all .

I was the one who found him after the beatings were just bad memories.

This emaciated shell of a man in a dirty one-room apartment, slouched against the wall in his boxers and an undershirt stained down the front with vomit.

I hadn't talked to him for days, and too many missed calls had me worried. I found out fast I had good reason.

My loyal brother died ugly, and I hate the world that let him.

I hate that he was so gaunt, so hollow, I barely recognized him.

I hate that his skin was like one giant bruise.

I hate that it became my final, lasting memory.

Seeing my brother bruised, broken, and this time, not getting up again to face another ass-kicking from life.

Somehow, that was worse in the end than anything our father did.

I blame our old man as much as I blame the Arrendells and the Jacobins.

Maybe they gave him the drugs, but our father gave him the itch.

And now, just like Brian Newcomb, there's nothing left of Jet but a killing memory and someone else living in his shitty rathole of an apartment with no clue that a man died in the same place where they sleep each night.

"Go on! Get the hell out of here." I swear at the crows as they take flight, done with torturing me.

At least it's one of those days where they leave, period.

Rolf lets out a soft whine and lays his head on my knee, just like he did with Talia the other night. I smile faintly, scratching between his ears.

"It's funny, old man," I murmur. "I never minded being alone with these thoughts before. Before her, I mean."

I should not be missing Talia right now.

How the hell have I gotten this attached?

No clue, but there's no denying she's under my skin with her soft ways hiding a free spirit, with her shyness, with her determination and her creative fire.

And I'll only ruin her in the end.

I can't help myself.

Can't help wanting to touch her again and again until she's infected with my darkness, a pale and beautiful thing tarnished like ancient copper.

Get your head back in the game, you miserable fuck.

I lead Rolf on another quick circuit of the crime scene, letting him sniff around in case anything pricks his interest, considering he was a drug dog once.

There are days when I wish I had Rolf's senses.

Everyone teases me about how I track like a wild animal, but an animal can do what I can't with scents. They can tell what came first, what came second, what came last, and piece together a more complete story than I ever could.

All Rolf tells me is that there's nothing too interesting around here. He takes a few sniffs and then immediately loses interest.

I take him down the hill then and do another slow walk where we found the body, expanding out in circles while I scan for his camera—just on the off chance this really was an accident and the camera just fell and wedged itself somewhere we overlooked.

I check every crevice, every pile of leaves, every rock heap.

Nothing.

I even look up into the trees, just in case the camera's dangling from a branch by its strap, waiting to spill its secrets.

No such luck.

Which tells me the victim definitely caught something on film that someone else didn't want him seeing.

By the time I hike through the woods with Rolf to where the cook site had been during my stakeout with Talia, I'm fairly certain who those someones are.

The site's been completely cleared out, well before the Jacobins usually pack up and move on.

I can piece together a scenario in my head.

Brian Newcomb wanders out into the woods, looking for a little wildlife to shoot. While he's camped out for the night, a noise alerts him that he's not alone.

He slips out and starts taking photos of the Jacobins at work, thinking he's found some hillbilly moonshine operation or a backwooded cult, something worth documenting.

He doesn't realize he's been spotted by Eustace Jacobin, this tall shadow sailing up to him in the dark of night, her footsteps silent.

Not until it's too late.

Not until she's already pushed him and stolen his camera and left him for dead, right before screeching at her little brood of minions to pack it up and relocate.

They'll be more careful now.

Craftier. Harder to track down.

One more problem Redhaven doesn't need.

Fuck.

Thunder cracks overhead, underscoring my thoughts. The rain smells sharp on the cool ground. I crouch down in the clearing, running my fingers through the loose earth where a post was pulled up. Rolf sets his nose to the ground—then lets out a yip , his ears pricking.

He knows what they've been doing here.

He can smell it, and so can I.

"If dogs could talk, eh, old man?" I drape an arm over him. "What would you tell me, Rolf? What the hell should I do ?"