Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [53]
The Volvo took Dillon longer than he expected, but by late afternoon it was running better than it probably had in years. There’d been no sign of Jamie—she hadn’t emerged from her fortress to eat or even to pee, as far as he could tell. Though he’d been blasting Nirvana again and it would have covered any noise.
She was still up there, he had no doubt of that. He could feel her there, underneath his skin. Like poison ivy, he thought savagely.
Mouser was right. Mouser was always right, damn him. He was like Jiminy Cricket, his fucking conscience. Friends you could trust were a hell of a lot more important than even the most longed-for piece of ass—he’d learned that the hard way.
He was going to let her go.
He backed the old Volvo out of the garage, feeling a trace of satisfaction in the sweet purr of the engine. The snow had almost stopped, the streetlights that were still in working order had come on, and the late-afternoon air was fresh and crisp. She had credit cards and a couple of hundred dollars in cash in her purse—she’d have no trouble finding a hotel room once she got away from here. He’d been prepared to put more money in her wallet if need be, but she probably would have noticed and had a fit.
He pulled the Volvo in front of the garage and cut the motor. He considered leaving it running. She was going to leave like a bat out of hell, and the gentlemanly thing would have been to warm it up for her.
But fuck it, he was no gentleman, and he was already being a revoltingly decent guy. Mouser was going to owe him, big time.
Except that Mouser would tease him, mercilessly. He always insisted that Dillon was a better person than he knew he was. And this would just give him more ammunition.
Couldn’t be helped this time. He never drove the Cadillac without thinking of Jamie, and that wasn’t likely to change. But he’d lived with it for twelve years—he could live with it for another twelve. Besides, he had other things to feel guilty about. Like Nate’s bloody death.
At least he’d managed to keep Jamie from seeing the room. There’d been no way to get all the blood out of the old wood, not without ripping out the floors and replastering the place. And he couldn’t be bothered. Once the police had removed Nate’s bloody corpse, once the yellow tape had been taken down, he’d dumped all of Nate’s possessions in there and locked it. He should have sent the stuff back to the Duchess, but he’d never gotten around to it, telling himself he owed the old bitch nothing.
But he knew the real reason. He was hoping Jamie would come to find it. Find him.
She had, and now he was wishing to hell he hadn’t done anything so fucking stupid. But he was making up for it, salvaging things before they exploded in his face.
The room still smelled like death, even three months later. The brown stains covered the floor and the walls, visible in the twilight, and he could see it all over again. The lifeless, battered figure, the face smashed in, the clothes soaked with blood. He’d seen a lot in his life, but that was something he wouldn’t soon forget. He had sat downstairs at the kitchen table and listened to the distant sounds of his former best friend being beaten to death. And done nothing to stop it.
He told himself he didn’t feel guilt or regret. If he had to do it over again, he would, without hesitation. He simply had to live with the consequences. And he’d never complained about the price he had to pay.
He dumped the two cardboard boxes into the trunk of Jamie’s car. She was as neat as she’d always been—no extraneous books or packages rattling around back there. It was as empty as her life.
And who was he to judge? His life consisted of his work, a couple of friends, and getting laid when he was in the mood for it.
That and meetings.
He would have killed for a drink right then. The moment she