Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [1]
The windshield wipers had stopped working hours before. Fortunately the rain had stopped, as well. She’d passed the Wisconsin state line hours ago, left the interstate to wander on the dark, wet roads outside the city. It seemed like the final indignity, to die in Wisconsin, Jamie thought. Nate was such a flamboyant, larger-than-life character—he should have died spectacularly. Not in some squalid room over top of a garage.
But Dillon Gaynor had seen to it that he had. Nate’s lifelong best friend, his nemesis, the person who’d dragged him into the gutter and held him down there. The man Nate had called Killer. Who might have lived up to his name three months ago.
The police had even taken him in for questioning. But they’d let him go. Never filed charges and simply closed the case when other, more important issues took their attention. And the question that haunted Jamie was simple. Had Dillon Gaynor gotten away with murder?
Sometime in western Pennsylvania she’d wondered what the hell she was doing, going after a man she knew was capable of killing. A man who’d scared the shit out of her when he’d been a teenage delinquent. She hadn’t seen him in twelve years—he hadn’t even bothered to come east for the memorial service for his oldest friend. Even if he hadn’t beat her cousin to death, he was still guilty. He’d kept Nate supplied with drugs, he’d taken him down the dark path that had ended in a sordid death. He was to blame, even if he hadn’t actually killed him. And she would have been happy never to see him again.
But by Ohio she’d stopped thinking about it. She needed answers, her desperately grieving mother needed them. And Dillon wouldn’t dare hurt her. He might be little better than pond scum, a high-school dropout with a record and an ongoing history of trouble with the law, but he was very, very smart. Almost frighteningly so. He’d be too smart to commit another murder and think he could get away with it.
She even had a plausible excuse for coming. Dillon was holding on to a box of Nate’s possessions, and despite Isobel’s increasingly virulent requests, he hadn’t bothered to send it back to them. God only knows what was inside—maybe the Patek Philippe watch that had been handed down through generations, maybe some clue to what happened. Or maybe dirty laundry and unpaid bills. It didn’t matter. Isobel was fixated on having anything that had ever belonged to Nate, and after that bleak Thanksgiving meal Jamie had agreed to go and get it.
Exhaustion set in by Indiana. She’d been surviving on black coffee and Ritz crackers, and the blinding headache was such a familiar companion that it almost felt like a friend. She tried turning off the New Age tape to listen to the radio, but all she could get was angry hip-hop or mournful country music. The classical music station put her to sleep, so she cracked the window and turned the New Age music back on. She gripped the steering wheel tightly.
Illinois had passed in a blur. She didn’t even mind Chicago driving, when she usually panicked over city traffic. It was late by then, the commuters were home in bed, and she sped through, half daring the police to stop her.
No one did. She was close now, within just a few miles of her destination. She had an address, she had a map, she had determination.
She also had a car on the verge of dying and a light snow that had begun to fall. She turned on the windshield wipers, forgetting that they were broken. The night seemed darker still on this narrow back road, the lights barely cutting through the darkness.
And then she realized it wasn’t her imagination, it wasn’t exhaustion. The lights were getting dimmer, the car was slowing, cruising to a sudden, coughing halt in the middle of the road. The New Age piano was