Page 8 of Murder Notes

I blink and sit up, realizing Texas is leaning across the seat and grabbing my arm, looking quite mortified. “Oh God,” I murmur. “Did I scream out?”

“Yes,” Texas confirms. “Quite loudly.”

“Fuck me,” I gush out and then hold up a hand. “I mean. Sorry about that. Are we about to take off?”

“We’re about to land. You slept through the flight.” She gives me a disapproving look and moves away.

I shift in my seat, and the file falls to the ground, the contents spilling out. Bending over, I reach for it, stuffing the contents back inside, and the tattoo photo catches my eye. I stare down at it and flash back to me lying on that beach, with my attacker on top of me, my gaze on his arm etched with the Virgin Mary, blood dripping from her mouth. I never knew who he was or why he came for me. I’d run instead, but I can’t run now, and I don’t want to, anyway. I have a killer to catch. One that seems to have more than one connection to me and my past.

CHAPTER THREE

Once I’m on the ground in New York, I check my messages, which include details on the chopper service I need to locate to get to the Hamptons. Clearly Director Murphy’s really damn eager to spend the money on this chopper service, and the more I think about that, the more uneasy I am with his willingness to spend $600 to speed up my progress into the Hamptons. What does he know that he hasn’t told me? I dial Murphy’s number as I head to the cab line to make my way to the private airstrip that will be my lift-off location, the call going straight to voice mail. Grimacing, I end the call, climb into the cab, and tab through my messages, deleting not one but three recordings from Rich, and I do so without guilt. He’s a good guy and I absolutely suck at being good to him. He needs to hate me and I need to make sure he does sooner than later. Why the hell doesn’t he already?

An hour later, I’m on a chopper, flying over Long Island, and my mind tracks back to the bloody scene in LA that I’d remembered on the plane. And I know exactly why my mind had taken me there. It wasn’t about escaping my past, or finding Rich that day, or rather him finding me. It was about how that day had led to me finding my zone, a place in my mind that I enter where blood and death are not real. I call it “Otherland,” and when I mentally step into that world, I don’t feel anything. I just process. I just profile. It’s sanity. It’s peace. It’s survival. And on that plane, my mind was telling me to make the Hamptons a part of my Otherland. A comical idea really, considering the Hamptons is an Otherland in and of itself. An alternate universe, where the rich and famous live the high life and shun those who don’t meet preordained standards that are known but not spoken. A universe that once owned me, controlled me. And I can’t let that happen again. I can, and will, survive by making this trip a visit to one of my Otherland crime scenes, not a visit home.

Easier said than done, I decide as we approach the village of Wainscott, flying over the now-shadowy silhouette of the graveyard where my mother is buried, and a million memories—good and bad—erupt inside me. By the time the pilot sets us on the tarmac, I’ve wrestled them into submission, but I just want off this bird and out of this airport. I exit the chopper, grab the small bag I’ve brought with me, and head across the tarmac. My plan is to pick up my rental car and get to the cottage in Sag Harbor that I’ve booked for the night. Once I’m there, safely out of my family’s direct line of fire, I’ll try to recover the evening off the radar of everyone involved in this case, which I’d planned to do before Director Murphy announced my visit. I’ll let the local officials know I’m here, I’m tired, and I’ll see them tomorrow. And then I’ll dig around before anyone has real eyes on me.

It’s a good plan that goes bad in all of two steps inside the terminal when I find a tall, lanky police officer holding a sign with my name on it. And since I know the police chief’s territorial nature, I’m not mistaking this greeting as a welcome, but rather as his establishment of his control.

Crossing to the man, I stop in front of him. “I’m here,” I say. “I’m Lilah. Who are you?”

“Officer Rogers. Shirley Rogers.”

I blink. “Your name is Shirley?”

“Yes, ma’am. Named after my father. He was a 9/11 hero.”

“Oh,” I say. “That certainly makes Shirley a marvelously unique name. Thank your father for his service.”

“He’s dead,” he blurts out awkwardly.

“Well then,” I say again. “Thank you and your family for his service. And tell your chief I’m here in the flesh and that I’ll see him in the morning.” I start walking toward the rental car booth.

“Ms. Love. Wait. Please.” He catches up with me as my cell rings. I reach for it while he attempts what he doesn’t understand as of yet to be a destiny of futile communication. “Ms. Love—”

“I’m renting a car,” I say, cutting him off and pulling my phone from my bag and noting Murphy’s number. “I don’t need a ride.” I walk up to the rental car counter. “Lilah Love,” I say, answering my call and bypassing “hello,” I add, “I’m at the airport.” I slide my ID onto the counter in front of a tall, dark-haired female I thankfully don’t know, when I know most everyone on the east side of the Hamptons.

“Good thing,” Murphy says approvingly, “because you have a gift waiting on you. A dead body that fits our killer’s MO.”

“What?” I say, accepting a form from the attendant, who seems unfazed by my conversation with someone other than her. “Are you sure?”

“Just got word from the chief, who’s in Southampton for a meeting of some sort. By the way, he sent a man to pick you up.”

“He’s here,” I say, my mind chasing this new development while he’s already moving on. “What did you tell the locals about my investigation?”

“You mean your brother?”

Smart-ass. “Yes,” I say. “Him.”

“When it became clear you’d told him nothing, I kept it vague. He believes you have a loose link to a series of murders you’re investigating. I’ll leave the rest to you, but I need to be kept abreast of the tone you’re keeping.”

“Understood.”

“And I don’t know about you, but I find it odd that this body shows up right when you get there.”

“Yes,” I say, already thinking the same thing. “I have to agree.”

“Either someone left you a gift,” he adds, “or someone knew you were coming and did an emergency silencing. In which case they have access to your inner circle, be it professional or personal. And with either conclusion, you’re the common denominator. Clearly, someone thinks you’re a threat. What haven’t you told me, Agent Love?”