Nick thought about Miranda. He would have given his life for her. He’d wanted to marry her. He’d loved her. She hadn’t loved him. He’d known it from the beginning, thought he could change her, convince her that he was the right man for her. That he could protect her, take care of her, keep her demons at bay.
But he couldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to do, and it took another man to fix Miranda’s wounded soul. He’d finally accepted that, moved on.
The colonel continued. “Andrew and Nelia, separate, are incredible people. Wonderful. I admire both of them. Separately, they made great parents. They loved Justin. They would have done anything for him.” He paused, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Together? They respected each other. And as the farce of a marriage continued, they spent more time apart.”
Nick could picture the relationship perfectly. Two people who stayed together, without anger or love, because of a child.
“So when Justin died, they had nothing left,” Nick said quietly.
“Not even each other,” the colonel said equally quietly.
He sat down on the stair next to Nick.
“Carina said his murderer was never found.”
“True. Nelia left, she couldn’t stay here with the memories. I haven’t seen her in years. Rosa, she talks to her once a week. Every Sunday. But no one else. Nelia is grieving alone, and to me, that’s the saddest thing. It’s been eleven years.”
They sat a long moment in silence.
“I heard about the third murder,” the colonel said. “That the girl was kidnapped from her apartment.”
“Yes.”
“How did Cara handle it?”
“Like a professional.”
Nick remembered the pain in her eyes, pain and anger, and a hint of doubt. But she still did the job, not letting her personal feelings interfere with her duty.
Nick knew how difficult it could be to push down personal feelings to do what was right. He’d had to do it repeatedly on the Butcher investigation. When he was involved with Miranda, he had to keep reminding himself that she didn’t want his protection, or his help. He had never wanted to bring FBI agent Quinn Peterson back to town, knowing that he still loved Miranda, but Nick had had to, to find the Butcher.
In a perfect world, there’d be no sick men torturing and hunting down women in the wilderness, or gluing their mouths shut and raping them while they suffocated. And in a perfect world, feelings wouldn’t hurt. Failure wouldn’t be a word. Mistakes wouldn’t happen.
“That’s my girl,” the colonel said with pride. “Professional, focused, determined. I just-I can’t help but worry. She took Justin’s death personally.”
“I know.”
Carina’s dad looked at him, surprised. “She told you?”
“That she was babysitting? That she was never allowed to watch Lucy again? Yeah. She told me.” Nick was surprised that it bothered him, that he felt closer to Carina because of the quiet, unconscious distrust of her family, even though her family loved her.
Neither man spoke for a long while. “It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t even think about it for the longest time. It wasn’t, well, it wasn’t until Carina said something last year that made me realize what Rosa and I had unintentionally done.”
“What did she say?”
“It was just before Lucy’s seventeenth birthday. She wanted to go to the mall to buy these shoes she had to have, but we don’t allow her to go alone or just to hang out with friends. Kids get in trouble that way. It was Rosa’s Ladies Guild night at the church, and I was getting over a cold. Carina offered to take her, and I said great.
“Carina turned to Lucy and said, ‘This will be fun. The first time us girls get a girls’ night out.’ ”
“After they left, Rosa and I talked and realized we’d never let Carina take Lucy anywhere, just the two of them. Both of us remembered many times where we’d volunteer to join them, or one of the boys would be in the house and would tag along. I think all of us went into protective mode.”
“It hurt Carina.”
“I see it now, but she’d never said anything. Not to me or her mother, at any rate.” He looked at Nick, cleared his throat. “I saw you get out of the car when Carina dropped you off.”
Nick tensed. Had the colonel been able to see him practically having sex with his daughter in his driveway? Nick was usually discreet about his relationships. Not that he and Carina had a relationship, especially now after he’d pushed her away.
“Dream of me tonight,” she’d said. And he definitely would.
“Bum knee?”
“You could say that.”
“Let me help you up the stairs.”
“I don’t need help.”
The colonel stood, extended his hand. “It’s not a sin to accept help once in a while.”
Damn. Nick would make it up the stairs alone. Struggling the entire way. Making the situation worse, which would mean paying for it in the morning.
“Thanks,” he managed to grunt out, taking the old man’s hand.
Wrapping an arm around the colonel’s shoulders while the colonel supported his back, Nick made it up the stairs without incident. He unlocked the door with the key he’d been given, and faced the colonel, embarrassed.
“Thank you,” he said clearly.
“Anytime, son.” He clapped Nick on the back.
Son.
His own father had rarely called him son.
For the second time in as many days, he’d felt more affection from a man he’d just met than he’d felt in a lifetime with his father.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE BRISK KNOCKING on the door woke Nick from a deep sleep. He sat up, trying to get his bearings. The Kincaid apartment. Right. Carina’s father had helped him up the stairs after their conversation.
He ran a hand through his damp hair. He’d slept rough, the memories and nightmares weaving in and out, deserting him finally to give him two hours of heavy sleep. The clock read 8:30. He never slept that late. But after the colonel helped him up the stairs, they’d shared a couple shots of good whiskey, talked some more. Nick didn’t know if it was the colonel’s way of sizing him up for his daughter, or just because he was a guest at their house. But he’d enjoyed the company.
Expecting to find Carina on the doorstep, he couldn’t hide his surprise when Dillon Kincaid stood outside with two tall mugs of coffee. He handed one to Nick. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” Nick stepped aside, sipped the coffee. “I guess I slept in. Did we have a meeting scheduled?”
“No.”
“Any word from Patrick about the MyJournal information?”
“Not that I know.”
“You know he’s going to kill again.” Nick pulled on a T-shirt and sat on a chair at the small table. He sipped the coffee; it was rich and spicy, and hit the spot.
“If we don’t find him. Third time’s the charm-separates the standard killer from the serial killer. Angie, Becca, Jodi. I wish we had more evidence, but it looks like you and the rest of the team have been working virtually around the clock.” Dillon sat down across from him, sipped his own coffee.
“I’d say yes, except you caught me sleeping in.” Nick played with the mug. “Why Becca?” he asked. “She doesn’t fit the profile.”
“There’s definitely a connection, even if she doesn’t fit what we think is the profile. Becca didn’t have a MyJournal page, didn’t spend any time online that wasn’t related to school or e-mailing friends. But there is a connection between Becca and the killer, probably through the library. My biggest question right now is, why? Why did he go after Becca now? When we knew he had targeted Jodi.”