Skye. She pulled off her attack dog, that bitch—”
“Sounds to me like you should be grateful to her, instead of calling her a bitch.” He stared into the man’s eyes, and Alex saw his own past.
His sister…she’d been hurt. She’d trusted the wrong man and—
“Trace Weston is psychotic.” Spittle flew from Parker’s mouth. “He’s a ticking time bomb, and that man’s gonna explode.”
Alex sucked in a deep breath. Then another. And he forced himself to back away from Parker. “When was the last time you saw either Trace Weston or Skye Sullivan?”
“I haven’t seen them in years.” Parker’s thumb jerked toward the TV set. “Except on the screen. Their faces have been splashed plenty there.”
Yes, they had.
Alex had one more question for the asshole. “What do you know about Trace Weston’s time in the military?”
“Nothin’. I was hoping the guy would get his ass blown to hell.” Parker rolled back his shoulders. “Instead, he came home to a freakin’ fortune.”
Yes, he had.
Ben Sharpe had been in the military, too. When he’d been found dead, the man had still been wearing his dog tags.
He suffered PTSD.
That had been Weston’s line.
Just what had happened to Sharpe during his days in the military?
Weston and his secrets…the man was going to drown in them.
Alex marched for the door.
“But at least the bitch got hers, didn’t she?” Now there was smug pleasure in Parker’s voice. “That doc took her and held her in that basement. I bet he did all kinds of things to her…
all kinds
…”
Alex slowly turned back to stare at Parker. “You’re a sick fuck.”
Parker smiled. “You didn’t say that the first time we met, Detective Griffin
.
Back then, you were so eager to find out dirt on Trace. You keep digging, and you’ll find plenty.”
He was already staring at dirt. “Skye should’ve pressed charges against you when you tried to rape her.”
Parker flinched.
Sonofabitch—that’s exactly what he had done.
Alex’s hands fisted so hard they ached.
But Parker…he recovered fast and his smile grew.
Alex knew he was staring right into the eyes of a monster.
***
She danced until her muscles trembled. Until her calves clenched and the balls of her feet knotted.
Then Skye danced some more.
Sweat gleamed on her body. Her hair was in a bun, but loose tendrils had escaped—they were slick and clung against the side of her face.
The music kept pounding.
She flew up onto her toes. Grabbed the barre. Stretched—
And saw Trace’s reflection behind her.
He stood there, just watching her. For an instant, Skye faltered.
He’d left over eight hours ago. Left after making her ache—and leaving her unfulfilled. Reese had been keeping guard from the other room. Her music had driven him away.
And the music had covered Trace’s entrance.
“Don’t stop.” She didn’t hear those words from him, but she saw his lips move and form them.
Her breath eased from her. Skye lifted her hands over her head, stretching. Her left leg came up, moving easily, fluidly, despite the injury that had sent her running from dance.
An injury that had changed her life.
She’d been in a car accident one rainy night after a performance. For hours, she’d been trapped in that car. Her leg had been savaged.
But she’d recovered. One painful step at a time.
She’d walked again. She’d danced.
She turned then, fully facing Trace. Her eyes locked on his face.
My spotting place.
He would be her constant as she danced. It was a trick most dancers used. Focusing on one object to maintain control and balance during turns.
He is my constant.
Skye straightened her shoulders, balanced, focused on him—and she turned. Once. Twice.
Her gaze locked on his.
Again.
His face.
She spun, moving fast and furiously so that her body would almost appear to be a blur, and he was what she saw. He was her only focus.
Always.
He
“Sounds to me like you should be grateful to her, instead of calling her a bitch.” He stared into the man’s eyes, and Alex saw his own past.
His sister…she’d been hurt. She’d trusted the wrong man and—
“Trace Weston is psychotic.” Spittle flew from Parker’s mouth. “He’s a ticking time bomb, and that man’s gonna explode.”
Alex sucked in a deep breath. Then another. And he forced himself to back away from Parker. “When was the last time you saw either Trace Weston or Skye Sullivan?”
“I haven’t seen them in years.” Parker’s thumb jerked toward the TV set. “Except on the screen. Their faces have been splashed plenty there.”
Yes, they had.
Alex had one more question for the asshole. “What do you know about Trace Weston’s time in the military?”
“Nothin’. I was hoping the guy would get his ass blown to hell.” Parker rolled back his shoulders. “Instead, he came home to a freakin’ fortune.”
Yes, he had.
Ben Sharpe had been in the military, too. When he’d been found dead, the man had still been wearing his dog tags.
He suffered PTSD.
That had been Weston’s line.
Just what had happened to Sharpe during his days in the military?
Weston and his secrets…the man was going to drown in them.
Alex marched for the door.
“But at least the bitch got hers, didn’t she?” Now there was smug pleasure in Parker’s voice. “That doc took her and held her in that basement. I bet he did all kinds of things to her…
all kinds
…”
Alex slowly turned back to stare at Parker. “You’re a sick fuck.”
Parker smiled. “You didn’t say that the first time we met, Detective Griffin
.
Back then, you were so eager to find out dirt on Trace. You keep digging, and you’ll find plenty.”
He was already staring at dirt. “Skye should’ve pressed charges against you when you tried to rape her.”
Parker flinched.
Sonofabitch—that’s exactly what he had done.
Alex’s hands fisted so hard they ached.
But Parker…he recovered fast and his smile grew.
Alex knew he was staring right into the eyes of a monster.
***
She danced until her muscles trembled. Until her calves clenched and the balls of her feet knotted.
Then Skye danced some more.
Sweat gleamed on her body. Her hair was in a bun, but loose tendrils had escaped—they were slick and clung against the side of her face.
The music kept pounding.
She flew up onto her toes. Grabbed the barre. Stretched—
And saw Trace’s reflection behind her.
He stood there, just watching her. For an instant, Skye faltered.
He’d left over eight hours ago. Left after making her ache—and leaving her unfulfilled. Reese had been keeping guard from the other room. Her music had driven him away.
And the music had covered Trace’s entrance.
“Don’t stop.” She didn’t hear those words from him, but she saw his lips move and form them.
Her breath eased from her. Skye lifted her hands over her head, stretching. Her left leg came up, moving easily, fluidly, despite the injury that had sent her running from dance.
An injury that had changed her life.
She’d been in a car accident one rainy night after a performance. For hours, she’d been trapped in that car. Her leg had been savaged.
But she’d recovered. One painful step at a time.
She’d walked again. She’d danced.
She turned then, fully facing Trace. Her eyes locked on his face.
My spotting place.
He would be her constant as she danced. It was a trick most dancers used. Focusing on one object to maintain control and balance during turns.
He is my constant.
Skye straightened her shoulders, balanced, focused on him—and she turned. Once. Twice.
Her gaze locked on his.
Again.
His face.
She spun, moving fast and furiously so that her body would almost appear to be a blur, and he was what she saw. He was her only focus.
Always.
He
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