Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

I write my name on a card and then his on another. Now. Who was close to me back then? My inner circle. I grab a stack of cards and use one per name. My father, Grant Love, then the police chief and running for mayor. My brother, Andrew Love, who was training to take over as police chief. Eddie “Asshole” Rivera. I actually write ASSHOLE on the card because it simply makes me feel better. Roger Griffin, my mentor. Logan Knight, my NYPD superior. From there, the cards start flying. There is my father’s campaign manager and staff. A woman Andrew was dating back then. My then—and now ex—best friend, Alexandra Harris. I stop at twelve cards, keeping the inner circle my focus, at least for now.

I move on to Kane and stare at the blank cards. There is only one person I know that has ever been close to Kane. Me. Well, and one other. I write that name on a card: Miguel Mendez, Kane’s dead father. A man who ran a cartel that he hid under layers of legal operations, with a savvy never seen before. A man who had enemies that Kane inherited by association. This has to be about Kane, not me. I’m going to have to involve him in this. No, I think immediately. Not that fast. Not until I rule out other options directly linked to me, not him.

I grab the note cards and walk to the bulletin board, and wanting to start high and work low, I climb the step stool, pinning my name and Kane’s side by side and above my head. When I’m done, my long list of names is under my name, and there is simply one under Kane’s name—Miguel. I scan my list and keep going back to Eddie, but my eyes pull to the name Miguel Mendez. Again, I think this has to be about him. He died not long after that night. Was there a connection to my attack and his death? Was it an attack on Miguel or Kane? I don’t like where this is leading me, which is to Kane’s doorstep. I grab a piece of chocolate and rip it open, shoving it in my mouth, only to choke on the horrid taste of mud.

“Ah, yuck.” I sit down and grab the trash can under the desk, spitting out the monstrosity in my mouth labeled as chocolate, looking for water I don’t have anywhere nearby. Opening the drawer, I grab a tissue and start wiping my tongue, like this will help, but I’m desperate here. I need this out of my mouth. Finally, I cross over from disgusting to a lingering chalklike sensation in my mouth, and I toss the tissue. I then grab the bag of candy and search for an expiration date to find my chocolate is two years past the “best by” date. Obviously not the thing to take with you into a bomb shelter.

My cell rings, and frustration with Rich and my chocolate fiasco wins my irritation. This man must let go. He’s going to make me hurt him, and that sucks big, fat bananas. I grab my phone and swipe my finger across it to answer. “I said please,” I bite out harshly.

“Please isn’t always good enough. You know that.”

At the deep, arrogant rasp of Kane’s voice, his words laced with a sexual undertone, I stiffen. “Kane,” I say coldly, and I do feel cold. Mostly cold.

“Lilah,” he answers, my name spoken with the tiniest bit of Latin accent that is both sandpaper and silk on his tongue.

A hot spot forms in my chest, and I bite out, “How did you get this number?”

“I’m resourceful. You know that.”

All too well, I think. “Why are you calling me now?”

“I wanted to call you many times.”

But he didn’t. He never called. Not once. “What is this about?”

“Are you at the beach house?”

There is a hint of concern in his voice I both welcome and reject. “Why is that your business?”

“You are always my business.”

“I was never—”

“Are you at the beach house?” he presses.

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s my—” I stop myself before I say home and amend to, “I’m here.”

“It’s your home,” he supplies. “Are you still having nightmares?”

“Stop trying to get into my head, Kane.”

“That’s a yes. Lilah—”

“Stop saying my name.”

“I don’t like you being there alone.”

“I was here and alone for months before I left.”

“You were rarely alone and we both know it. And I wanted you here. Come here now.”

I laugh. “Just like that? ‘Come here now,’ and you expect me to come. You are a piece of arrogant work, Kane Mendez.”

“With me is where you belong. Come here.”

“No.”

“I’ll come there.”

“You would make a pretty lawn ornament, but it’s dark, and you would be a wasted decoration. Whatever you think is going to happen, isn’t going to happen.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“If we meet again, and I do mean if, I will look into your eyes and ask questions about your dead employee.”

“Are you saying that you think I killed that woman?”

I do not miss the way he calls her “that woman” without a bleep of silence. It tells me he feels no sense of familiarity to her. Then again, he’s a damn good manipulator. “I didn’t say you killed her, but you are a person of interest.”

“A person of interest,” he repeats. “All right then. Let me be clear, Agent Love. I did not kill that woman, nor did I order anyone to kill her. Nor do I know anything about how or why she died. You’re simply avoiding me.”

“What part of ‘you’re a person of interest in a case I’m investigating’ do you not understand?”

“Let’s remove the barrier. How exactly do I get off the person-of-interest list?”

I’m reluctant to remove this barrier, and yet, I find myself answering him a bit too quickly. “I’ll need a firm alibi. Who were you with? Where were you?”

“An alibi. Of course. That’s logical.”

“Do you have one?”

“Yes. I do.” There are two seconds of hesitation that follow, indicating calculation before he announces, “I was with Samantha. She’ll corroborate my story.”

The woman he was fucking before he was fucking me. I swear if he were here, I’d punch him, and that pisses me off. This shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “I’ll talk to her.”

“I’m a man, Lilah. You weren’t fucking me and she—”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“She’s a fuck. Nothing more.”

“I’ll talk to her,” I repeat tightly.

“I’m coming over. We need to talk about this in person.”

“Yes, well, since I’d like to get fired from this case and go home, please come over. Then I can get on a flight tomorrow morning.”

“Lilah,” he says, his voice back to that mix of sandpaper and silk.

“Fuck you, Kane.”

He laughs, low and sexy, but there is this hint of darkness, this edge, that slides in between the softness and down my spine, a moment before he says, “That sounds like an invitation.” I open my mouth to dispute this idea, but he’s already moved on. “If the nightmares get to be too much,” he says, “you know how to reach me.” The line goes dead.

I suck in air and press the phone to my forehead. Yes. I know how to reach him all too well. Just like I know how his bed feels and how he smells and that he tastes like no one ever has tasted before or after him. Like spiced, dark chocolate that is addictive to the point of being sinister. He is the devil, but then, I am no angel. He made sure of that. He touched my life forever, and I can never undo the way he changed me. And in some of those nightmares he talks about, I imagine what I would become if I ever tasted his version of temptation again. They were—are—the bloodiest of them all.

I set my phone down and grab a note card and pen. I write SAMANTHA YOUNG in huge letters across the card, climb up the steps, and pin the card in the center of the board. I back down the steps, hands on my hips as I stare at the name. She hates me. She’s also rich, devious, insecure, and arrogant. She’s Harvard-educated. She fits the profile I’ve started. And it’s not beyond belief she would have been trying to spy on me with Kane that night. It’s her. She wants me gone. And yet . . . that feels too obvious.

I sit down, my fingers tapping on the desk, when the doorbell rings. Instinctively, I pick up Cujo.





CHAPTER SEVEN