Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [82]
He stood in the middle of the chaos, trying to catch his breath. It should have made him feel better—destruction should have wiped his emotions clean. Instead the fury bubbled inside.
He could go into the garage, take a tire iron to the stable of old beauties. But he wouldn’t do that. He’d already managed to hurt and destroy the people he cared about. He didn’t need to smash the only material things he cared about, as well. He’d done enough for one day.
He stepped over the debris, heading into the garage for the small comfort the logical workings of a car could provide. But all he saw was the sofa where he’d slept with Jamie, their covers still intertwined. The pool of dried blood where her car had sat, holding its terrible secret.
Then he saw the word, written in blood on the cement floor. It had been hidden by the car, and he wondered when Nate had done it. Probably some time when he’d been upstairs screwing his brains out.
Dungeon. It was Nate’s name for his childhood home, the one that had been destroyed in the fire that had killed his parents. The real name was Dungeness Towers, named by Nate’s great-grandfather, a Scottish immigrant who’d amassed a fortune in shipping and built a monument to his own importance. The last time Dillon had seen it, there hadn’t been much left but two of the towers and the carriage house that had once served as a small-scale chophouse for stolen cars and a drug center. Dillon had taken care of the cars—Nate had found people to steal them, Dillon had stripped them down and turned them out again in record time. He was young and in love with danger—he wanted to be the one to boost the cars, as well, but Nate’s cool head had prevailed.
He hadn’t been particularly interested in Nate’s sideline of dealing drugs. He’d dealt weed and a few other things through high school, but Nate was getting into more dangerous stuff, and Dillon had lost his taste for it. Rebuilding stolen cars was enough excitement for him at the time.
They’d both called it the Dungeon. Nate had always said when he died he’d go back and haunt the old place.
Dillon closed his eyes and remembered the sight of Jamie’s scraped torso. He’d rather think about her breasts, but the marks were more important. Fortunately she hadn’t seen what was scratched into her skin. “Whore.” “Traitor.” “Dungeon.”
Another message, meant for no one but Dillon. Who else would be looking at Jamie’s bare chest?
He was going to have to go after him, sooner or later. It was a summons, an invitation, a dare. From a dead man, who knew that Dillon had betrayed him to his enemies and done nothing to save him.
And if he didn’t go, then the ghost of Nate Kincaid would keep going after Jamie.
It was a confrontation long overdue. They’d both been selfish, self-destructive monsters when they were teenagers. But Dillon had grown up, learned a little about what was important.
Nate had stayed a dangerous little boy, out for revenge and anything else that took his fancy, no matter what the cost.
He had no choice. Maybe he could live alone here with Nate’s ghost haunting him, leaving dead rats as a token of affection.
But he’d lost Mouser, and if he didn’t do something, Jamie would be the next to go.
He didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. Which left only one possibility. That Nate was alive, someone else had died, beaten and blood-splattered in that upstairs room. And if Dillon didn’t do something about it, more death would follow.
He’d go after him, in his own sweet time. For now, Jamie was gone, safe, and there was really nothing Nate could do to hurt him. At least for the moment. The smartest