Torn - Cynthia Eden Page 0,73

phone later. You and I—­we’re getting out of this station.” And he was getting a drink. A really big one. And giving her one, too. “Then we’ll talk, and you’ll see that—­”

“I’m a killer, Wade.”

Fuck. Did the woman want to get tossed behind bars? He cast a desperate glance toward the door.

“And . . . you’re a cop.” Now she sounded confused.

“Ex-­cop,” he gritted out. There was a real big difference there. “We aren’t talking about this now. Come on, let’s go.” He locked his hand around her elbow and steered her to the door.

“Wade. Didn’t you hear me? I just told you—­”

“Baby, please, I’m begging here. Don’t say another word about it. Not until we’re out of the cop station, got it?”

Her eyes had never seemed bigger. She blinked, appeared a bit confused, but nodded.

Good. He yanked open the door even as he kept a grip on her with his right hand. The bullpen was full of cops, and the last thing he wanted was for one of those uniformed men or women to overhear Victoria’s confession.

She killed her father. She killed him. Shit. He should have realized it sooner. Put all the pieces together.

“Wade . . .”

He kept walking. He could see the door. They were almost there.

And—­

Matthew Walker was marching out of the room to the right. A bald guy in a suit was at his side, a guy who was speaking with a bellowing voice as he pointed at Detective Black.

Hell. Now it’s a party.

“My client will not sit through any more of your badgering!” the guy in the suit blustered. Has to be Walker’s lawyer. “So either you charge my client or he is walking out of this place right now!”

Dace didn’t have enough to charge Walker. Wade already knew that. He tightened his hold on Victoria and—­

She stopped. Froze.

For an instant his eyes squeezed closed. Don’t confess, baby. Not here. Not now. I have to think of a way to cover that sweet ass of yours and a confession now will blow everything to hell.

“I’m getting another text,” Victoria said.

He shook his head. “What?”

Her face had gone stark white. She was staring down at the screen of her phone. “My God . . . I think . . . I think it’s Jim.” Her hand was shaking as she shoved the phone toward Wade.

She hadn’t just gotten a text this time. She’d gotten a picture. A picture of yes, dammit, Jim Porter. Jim was on the floor, holding a hand over his bloody throat.

“Fuck!” His roar had every eye in the station coming to him.

In the silence that followed, Wade ran toward Dace. “Get your men—­we need people over at Jim Porter’s place right now!” He pushed the phone toward Dace and saw the other man pale.

Melissa hadn’t died right away. She’d survived for precious moments. Perhaps—­maybe Jim Porter could survive, too.

But only if he had help. Right fucking then.

THE AMBULANCE BEAT them to the scene. Dace had sent cops and EMTs rushing to Jim Porter’s apartment. And they knew the photo had been taken from Jim’s place because they’d downloaded the picture and taken the GPS coordinates right off the damn thing. A little trick most folks didn’t realize . . . unless you turned off the settings on your smart phone, the longitude and latitude coordinates of every photo you took were stored—­all you had to do was check the properties on that file, and bam, you had a perfect address.

So the ambulance rushed to the scene. The cops went in with sirens blazing.

Wade and Victoria stayed back, watching from a distance because they’d been told not to interfere. Wade saw the EMTs burst out of the building’s front door. Jim was on the stretcher, blood soaking him.

Just like Melissa.

He didn’t seem to be moving. The techs were working frantically on him. A crowd had gathered near the street, watching in horror.

“We’re too late,” Victoria said. “I think we always were. The perp—­he could have waited before he sent that photo. Jim could already have been dead before I ever got it.”

Sonofabitch.

Dace marched down the front steps. He didn’t even look at the ambulance as it sped away. Instead, his gaze was fixed solely on Wade and Victoria.

When he was right in front of them, Dace finally stopped. “The killer took that picture with Jim’s own phone. Cocky sonofabitch. He took the picture, then he sent it to you.” His eyes narrowed as they swept over Victoria. “Why the fixation on you?”

“I—­I