tells me that person isn’t going to be you. Am I wrong?” When Simon didn’t answer, Stevens sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just follow every lead, Simon. Every. One. If you can’t do that, I’ll put someone on the case who will.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AFTER HE LEFT STEVENS, it took Simon a minute to gather his composure. The idea that Nina knew anything about the homeless murders and was intentionally manipulating them was ludicrous. But he’d do what Stevens said. Follow every lead. Because that was his job and failing to do his job would only serve to put more suspicion on Nina.
As he drove to her house, he called Carrie and told her he was on his way.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She’s lying down in her room. Trying to hold it together. But she’s pretty upset.”
Of course she was. God, he felt bad for her. “Take care of her until I get there, Carrie.”
“You know I will, Simon.”
When he got to Nina’s house, it was almost ten. Carrie had left the front lights on so he had a clear path up the walkway. She opened the door as he was walking up. He filled her in on what he and Stevens had talked about, leaving out Stevens’s paranoid speculations about Nina, then said, “Thanks, Carrie. I’ve got it from here.”
Carrie nodded. “Just call me if you or she needs anything.” She gave him a hug, squeezing tight.
He returned the hug as tightly as he dared. Then he went to find Nina.
He found her lying in bed, with tear streaks drying on her cheeks. Her eyes were red, her breathing ragged, and her obvious distress made his head and heart hurt. He hated that he hadn’t been able to hold her as she’d cried.
But he was here now.
If she wanted him.
He stepped up to the side of the bed and hesitated, uncertain what she’d want.
“Nina—”
With a sob, she launched herself out of the bed and into his arms.
She buried her face in his neck and cried.
Her grief and fear poured out of her, and she didn’t even try to stifle her sobs. She was completely outside herself, completely out of control. Nothing like the elegant, professional woman he was used to.
And also exactly like her.
He wrapped his arms around her.
Held her tight.
And didn’t let go even after she fell asleep.
* * *
DEMARCO BARELY REMEMBERED the drive back to his house after he’d left Simon at Golden Gate Park. He barely remembered anything about what they’d talked about while they’d been there. But he remembered exactly what he’d seen, and how the entire time he’d been trying to keep himself from throwing up.
For weeks, he’d been feeling more and more out of control. When he’d started hearing that damn file calling to him in the office, he’d thought he wasn’t getting enough sleep. He’d gone home and started popping pills and drinking to force the issue, but that had merely made him twitchy the next day, so he’d stopped.
Aside from a royally bad mood here and some memory lapses there, he’d been getting by. Memories still haunted him, but talking folders had ceased to make another appearance. But then Simon had called him, telling him that a man had been killed with the letters BD carved into his back, and DeMarco’s entire world had imploded. It had continued to crumple as he’d seen the horrifying evidence for himself.
He’d barely held it together at the park before making it home, downing a few drinks and collapsing in bed. He’d curled up in a ball and eventually he’d fallen asleep.
But even in sleep his thoughts troubled him.
As he slept, DeMarco’s body moved restlessly beneath the sheets. At the same time, his mind fought a losing battle against a slide show of horrifying images.
First, he dreamed of two murdered men. One by one, he saw the crime scene photos that had been in Cann’s file. Saw how an ex-marine, a man who’d fought for his country, a man who couldn’t have been a bad man given that, had been dismissed by society and then disposed of as if he was trash.
Next, DeMarco once again saw the grotesque initials that had been carved into the back of a different homeless man. Though he knew nothing about that man, he sensed he was more than what he appeared. Even the green-and-white-checkered pants he’d worn had made him seem more pathetic. More vulnerable.
The visions in his head spun and undulated before changing once again.