Devious - Lisa Jackson [137]
She let him propel her into the dark bedroom, didn’t resist as he tucked her, naked, between the sheets, then left to get her a glass of water.
“Don’t,” she said as he set the tumbler on the bedside table, then claimed the cane-backed chair in the corner, kicked off his boots, and propped his crossed ankles onto the foot of the old queen-size.
“Rest.”
“I can’t . . . There’s so much to do.” Her mind was spinning in circles. Who had left the BlackBerry? Was it Camille’s? What else was on it? She needed to call the police.
“I’ll take care of it. Now, rest,” he said again, folding his arms over his chest. “Just for twenty minutes. Think if you want to, but just . . . take a deep breath.”
“And pull myself together?”
“Yeah,” he said, and for once she didn’t fight. “That would be a good idea.”
Reluctantly, Val closed her eyes and sank back into the downy depths of her pillow. She let the darkness close in on her, willing the horrible images of Cammie dying from her brain.
She felt a thump as Bo jumped onto the bed and nuzzled close beside her, as if to give her comfort. Absently, tears burning behind her eyelids, she patted his head, soothing both herself and the dog.
Don’t fall apart! You can’t! Not now. You owe it to Cammie to be strong, to find her killer.
Surely, if she just thought long and hard, she could figure this out; she knew she could. But there was so much. Beyond who had killed her and Sister Asteria, why had Camille been looking into her own adoption? And who was the father of her child if not Father Frank O’Toole? Why did she, Valerie, feel like everywhere she went, someone was watching? Why was Cammie found in a bridal dress? What was it Sister Charity was hiding at St. Marguerite’s? What were the meaning of the notes scribbled in Cammie’s all-too-graphic diary?
And Lord, oh, Lord, what was she going to do about Slade?
“I can’t do this,” she said into the darkness. “I have to get up and do something.”
“We will.” Slade’s voice was close. Now he was probably seated in the only other chair in the room, the one near the foot of the bed.
“No,” she said, unable to fight the need for action. “We need to do it right now.” She had the feeling that time was slipping away from her, that any second that wasn’t used to try and find Camille’s killer was a second wasted.
She threw off the covers, grabbed the sheet to cover her nakedness, though he’d seen her thousands of times before, then swung off the bed. He was seated in the chair with his heels propped on the end of the mattress, his legs blocking her path. He looked up at her. “You’re sure about this?”
She nodded. “Ab-so-frickin’-lutely. It’s time to stop being a wimp and get something done. Whoever’s doing this is really ticking me off.”
He grinned, offering up that untrustworthy slash of white. She thought he might try to stop her, but he nodded and swung his feet to the floor.
“I’m with you,” he said, and her heart nearly broke.
“The date—it’ll have to wait.”
“I know.”
“You want to give me some privacy?” She was still clutching the damned sheet over her chest.
“No.” His grin stretched and was absolutely wicked. She arched an eyebrow and he said on a sigh, “But, being the gentleman I am, I will.”
“Another bad line, Houston.”
He chuckled, and, standing, he whistled to the dog. “Come on, Bo, the lady wants to be alone.” He walked through the door and called over his shoulder, “We’ll check the perimeter, but I’m sure whoever was inside is long gone.”
“No doubt.” As she heard him leave, she dressed—underwear, bra, T-shirt, and jeans. She scraped her hair back but didn’t bother with any makeup other than a slash of lip gloss, then walked into the living area again.
There was the damned BlackBerry, right where she’d dropped it. She was careful as she picked it up, using a plastic bag as she stared again at the short video of her sister’s death.
“You sick son of a bitch,” she muttered, then hit the