The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,88

we need sleep. In light of the fact that your place is swarming with curious eyes and ears, I vote we go to my house and rest there. Once you’re rested, you can decide what comes next.”

“On that, you will get no argument.”

We head toward his house on the west side of downtown, and I exchange a few text messages with Lang. The drive is short, and Wade’s place is far bigger than mine, an actual house with a backyard, but still familiar and comfortable. He’d wanted me to move in with him at one point, and before my father died I’d considered that a possibility. Tonight, I take sanctuary in our relationship. I scream. I cry. I get angry—at The Poet, at the chief, at my father, at Lang for his betrayal but ultimately at myself because I let The Poet win at the cost of a little boy’s life. He offers me an outlet in every way, but as I lie down in bed next to him, I know that where I go, The Poet will go, and one way or another, he’ll make sure this showdown is between the two of us if I don’t do it for him.

I won’t stay here beyond tonight.

Chapter 76

The morning after Detective Jazz’s first kill, I wake after only a few hours of sleep, feeling quite dapper, despite the limited hours of shut-eye. One might say I’m still riding the high of a night done well. So much so that the adrenaline rush rises high with the sun and I find myself having sex with my wife, quite intense, rather rough sex, the ropes I use on her legs and body tight, perhaps too tight, but she doesn’t complain. She’s seen this dark part of me that defies the reserved exterior I allow the world to view and drinks it up in ways one wouldn’t expect from such a sweet woman. She allows me this outlet to sate an appetite for more, to hold me over until the right moment, for Ava Lloyd to become a lesson taught as a part of Detective Jazz’s path to her destiny.

When it’s over, she’s breathless. “I love you, Shakes.”

Shakes.

That’s her nickname for me, short for Shakespeare. I do appreciate her understanding of my love of poetry. “I love you, too,” I say. I don’t actually love her; those types of trivial human emotions are beneath me, but she’s an excellent outlet and a shelter in the storm of human interest I do not need nor do I invite.

When finally she’s dressed in a pretty pink dress for work, and I’m in a blue suit with a blue silk tie she’s chosen for me, I sit at the kitchen island, sipping coffee. The kids fight over cinnamon rolls, and the wife forces calm. Once she’s found peace between the children, she sits down next to me, her coffee in hand. “Did you read about that serial killer?” she asks softly, careful not to let the kids overhear.

Inside, my heart flutters, a butterfly spreading its wings in joy. “Here?”

“Here,” she says. “Crazy, right? Would you believe they’re calling him The Poet?”

I feign surprise. The name suits me, but it’s not as original as I’d hoped. “Really? Why?”

“He sticks poems in their mouths after he kills them, a message that law enforcement has to decode. I was thinking, maybe you should offer to consult. You’re a poetry expert.”

“No,” I say shortly. “There are plenty of scholars available, and the last thing I want is to bring attention to my family.”

“Right,” she says. “Right. I should have thought of that.”

I catch her hand and kiss it. “Relax. I’ll take care of you and the kids. Always. You know that.”

She nods. “Yes. Yes, I know you will.”

Chapter 77

I wake from what is a surprisingly deep sleep to a call from Mrs. Crawford.

“Are you okay?” She doesn’t give me time to answer. She’s still talking. “What exactly happened? There are reporters everywhere and everyone is talking about what happened.”

I sit up to find Wade walking into the bedroom, already dressed in a gray suit and freshly shaved, with two cups of coffee in hand. I mouth a thank you and accept the cup, wondering how I slept through him getting up.

“These reporters are crazy people, just crazy,” Mrs. Crawford says. “Surely you can do something.”

“The interest will fade in a few days. I promise.”

She isn’t so sure, because she launches into a story about a reporter who knocked on my