they’d have someplace to go and not worry about Tracy or her father bursting in on them. Or Mr. Jolley peeping through the window.
And next year was supposed to have been even better. Aimée had checked out some really cool apartments near RISD, on the hill overlooking Providence. Places that would have been perfect for their evenings together. How many times had she imagined the scene? Byron working on his screenplay or maybe posing nude while Aimée sketched his beautiful, slender body. It all would have been so much fun, and now he had gone and screwed everything up. It really wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.
She got up, straightened the sheets and closed the sofa bed. Found the vodka, poured herself a drink and sat quietly sipping. She thought about all the boys and men who wanted her. Why was it, she wondered, she was always attracted to the older ones? The impossible ones. She wondered if what she was really looking for wasn’t some poetic wuss like Byron but somebody more like Charles or, even better, Daddy. Her father was almost perfect. Smart. Warm. Handsome. Funny. And, most important, unafraid of living life to the fullest. She wanted someone like that. Someone who could be gentle and tender with her yet tough as nails with anyone who had the balls to confront him head-on. And that sure as hell wasn’t Byron. Byron with all his poetry didn’t come close. She supposed she’d always known the affair wouldn’t last. But she didn’t think it would end this soon. And the way it ended hurt. She wanted to make Byron suffer for that.
The vibration from the phone in her pocket made her jump. A text from Byron. How could I have been such a jerk? he wrote. I’m so sorry. We need to talk. Please meet me by my boat. I love you.
Aimée smiled to herself. Less than half an hour after his big speech, and the gutless wonder was already crawling back. She texted back, OMW.
Chapter 15
W ITHOUT REALIZI N G H O W far he’d driven, McCabe found himself passing through the town of Rumford, heading toward the Mahoosuc Land Trust on a small two-laner. That’s when his phone rang. Caller ID told him it was Kelly Haddon from Portland Police Dispatch.
“What’s up, Kelly?”
Kelly’s voice emerged from the Bluetooth speakers. “Looks like you’re up, Sergeant,” she said. “Body of a woman was just found off the Loring Trail. Bob Hurley was first at the scene. Says the vic looks pretty young. Maybe a teenager. Shift commander said I should call you direct.”
“Murdered? Or just dead?”
“Murdered, I think. Possibly raped is what Hurley said.”
It was weird. Just hearing the words murdered , possibly raped emerge from the speaker triggered a familiar rush in McCabe. His breathing and heart rate shot up. His muscles tensed. His senses went on heightened alert. It was a high he’d always been addicted to. A high for which there were no rehab centers or twenty-eight-day cures. McCabe knew it. Kyra knew it. A murder junkie, she’d once called him. And she was right. When the bell went off, it turned him on. More than booze, more than pot, even more than sex. A high that stayed with him until the bad guy was caught . Or, better yet, dead.
“What do you want me to do?” Kelly’s voice asked from the speakers.
As with all addictions, McCabe’s came with a price: the inevitable guilt of knowing that the excitement he drew from the act of murder was both ethically and morally wrong. Reprehensible. The problem was, he couldn’t help himself.
“McCabe?”
Fueled by adrenaline, McCabe hit the brakes, downshifted to second, spun the wheel hard to the left and slammed the Bird into a tight one-eighty. He floored the accelerator and shifted to third.
“McCabe, are you still there?”
“I’m here,” he responded.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Call Maggie. Tell her I’m up near Rumford. Tell her to get on down to the scene. I’ll be there quick as I can.”
He ended the call.
The night
And next year was supposed to have been even better. Aimée had checked out some really cool apartments near RISD, on the hill overlooking Providence. Places that would have been perfect for their evenings together. How many times had she imagined the scene? Byron working on his screenplay or maybe posing nude while Aimée sketched his beautiful, slender body. It all would have been so much fun, and now he had gone and screwed everything up. It really wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.
She got up, straightened the sheets and closed the sofa bed. Found the vodka, poured herself a drink and sat quietly sipping. She thought about all the boys and men who wanted her. Why was it, she wondered, she was always attracted to the older ones? The impossible ones. She wondered if what she was really looking for wasn’t some poetic wuss like Byron but somebody more like Charles or, even better, Daddy. Her father was almost perfect. Smart. Warm. Handsome. Funny. And, most important, unafraid of living life to the fullest. She wanted someone like that. Someone who could be gentle and tender with her yet tough as nails with anyone who had the balls to confront him head-on. And that sure as hell wasn’t Byron. Byron with all his poetry didn’t come close. She supposed she’d always known the affair wouldn’t last. But she didn’t think it would end this soon. And the way it ended hurt. She wanted to make Byron suffer for that.
The vibration from the phone in her pocket made her jump. A text from Byron. How could I have been such a jerk? he wrote. I’m so sorry. We need to talk. Please meet me by my boat. I love you.
Aimée smiled to herself. Less than half an hour after his big speech, and the gutless wonder was already crawling back. She texted back, OMW.
Chapter 15
W ITHOUT REALIZI N G H O W far he’d driven, McCabe found himself passing through the town of Rumford, heading toward the Mahoosuc Land Trust on a small two-laner. That’s when his phone rang. Caller ID told him it was Kelly Haddon from Portland Police Dispatch.
“What’s up, Kelly?”
Kelly’s voice emerged from the Bluetooth speakers. “Looks like you’re up, Sergeant,” she said. “Body of a woman was just found off the Loring Trail. Bob Hurley was first at the scene. Says the vic looks pretty young. Maybe a teenager. Shift commander said I should call you direct.”
“Murdered? Or just dead?”
“Murdered, I think. Possibly raped is what Hurley said.”
It was weird. Just hearing the words murdered , possibly raped emerge from the speaker triggered a familiar rush in McCabe. His breathing and heart rate shot up. His muscles tensed. His senses went on heightened alert. It was a high he’d always been addicted to. A high for which there were no rehab centers or twenty-eight-day cures. McCabe knew it. Kyra knew it. A murder junkie, she’d once called him. And she was right. When the bell went off, it turned him on. More than booze, more than pot, even more than sex. A high that stayed with him until the bad guy was caught . Or, better yet, dead.
“What do you want me to do?” Kelly’s voice asked from the speakers.
As with all addictions, McCabe’s came with a price: the inevitable guilt of knowing that the excitement he drew from the act of murder was both ethically and morally wrong. Reprehensible. The problem was, he couldn’t help himself.
“McCabe?”
Fueled by adrenaline, McCabe hit the brakes, downshifted to second, spun the wheel hard to the left and slammed the Bird into a tight one-eighty. He floored the accelerator and shifted to third.
“McCabe, are you still there?”
“I’m here,” he responded.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Call Maggie. Tell her I’m up near Rumford. Tell her to get on down to the scene. I’ll be there quick as I can.”
He ended the call.
The night
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