Last Kiss Goodbye. Rita Herron
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the citizens.” He removed a business card from his pocket and handed it to her. “My home phone number’s on there as well as my cell.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate your concern.”
Matt followed the sheriff to the door with a frown. “What’s wrong, A.J.? What was that call about?”
A.J. hesitated. “It’s started again.”
“What’s started again?” Ivy asked.
“The trouble. A fight broke out with some teens in front of one of the gas stations. And there’s been a murder out near the junkyard.” The sheriff leveled his gaze at Matt, an insinuation in his eyes. “You weren’t out there earlier, were you?”
Matt’s jaw tightened. “I dropped by to see my mother, but that’s the only place I stopped.”
“And how did it go? Was she glad to see you, Matt?”
His shoulders stiffened. “Yeah, she welcomed me with open arms.” Sarcasm laced his voice and anguish radiated from him, stirring Ivy’s compassion.
The sheriff stared at Matt for a long minute, eyes locked. “You didn’t have a run-in with anyone else while you were out there?”
Matt’s expression turned lethal. “No. Who was murdered?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge the victim’s identity. We have to notify the next of kin.” Sheriff Boles turned back to Ivy with a smile. “Like I said, call me if you have any more problems, Miss Stanton, day or night. And if I were you, I’d keep my doors locked.” He tugged his hat lower on his head, then opened the door, the wind hurling rain inside. “In fact, if I were the two of you, I’d get out of town. There’s nothing for either one of you here anymore. Nothing but trouble.”
Ivy barely suppressed a shudder. In the next second, she wondered if his comment had been a threat instead of a warning.
AS SOON AS A.J. LEFT, A strained silence engulfed the room. The air was charged with tension, the accusations A.J. had posed lingering, leaving the rancid smell of suspicion. Did A.J. really think Matt had committed murder the first night he was back? What had happened to make his buddy distrust him?
“I can’t believe someone knows who I am,” Ivy said in a strained voice. “But that is blood, isn’t it?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, what did you think it was?”
“I…wasn’t sure.” She paused, heat staining her cheeks. “I…don’t see red anymore. The color red. Not since that night.”
The reality of her words slammed into him. He’d heard she’d been traumatized, had blacked out her memories. But she’d blocked out colors, as well? Maybe that explained her drab clothing. A woman like her should be dressed in pretty bright colors, not denim or brown.
His earlier need to seek vengeance against her vanished, shame replacing his anger. “Let’s get you moved. Go ahead and pack your things.”
Ivy licked her lips. “You don’t have to come with me, Matt.”
He banked his own emotions. “I want to make sure you get safely situated inside.”
Her gaze locked with his, fear still lingering. But something else—a different kind of emotion—flickered in her eyes. Regret? Surprise? Gratitude?
She didn’t want to be alone. Any fool could see that. Although she was desperately trying to put up a brave front, she was terrified. Who could blame her? The bloody message on the wall and dead animal turned his stomach, and he’d seen worse shit in the pen. Things he would never discuss.
That stupid macho part of him wanted to rescue her again. Wipe the fear off her face. Hold her until she stopped shaking.
They reached for her suitcase at the same time. Her hand touched his, sending a shard of desire straight through him. She had the softest skin he’d ever felt. The most tender touch. And those hands were fine-boned, with long slender fingers. He wanted to twine her fingers in his, bring them to his lips, kiss the soft pads of each one, then feel them on his skin. Stroking. Teasing. Touching. Loving.
Yes, she had the hands of an angel.
But those hands shouldn’t be touched by a man’s dirty ones.
Not by his hands, especially. Hands that had done things he wasn’t proud of.
Hands that had shaken the devil’s more than once—hands that knew what it was like to murder.
THE DEVIL HAD GOTTEN INTO him. That was the only explanation.
Tommy Werth stared at his hands, turning the palms over to study the bruises and scratches, remembering the first time he’d taken the notion to kill.
The idea had started in his mind years ago, but he’d put it on hold, like a phone call he didn’t want to answer. But the urge had grown stronger lately, that phone ringing incessantly, urging him to follow through. So often that the need had finally possessed him, possessed his body, as if someone else’s soul had slipped inside him.
Whispering the things he had to do. Telling him it was all right. Urging him to choke his mama. That she deserved it.
Suggesting ways he could pull it off and not get caught.
Leave her out in the old junkyard. Hide her beneath the kudzu with the other ghosts of people long gone. Let the snakes and rats destroy any evidence he might have left behind.
So that’s what he’d done.
Squeezed the breath out of her. Watched her eyes pop wide open in shock and terror.
He’d let her know that he was in charge now. That her reign as dictator had ended. He no longer had to listen to her mind-numbing chatter. To her bitching and ranting. Calling him weak. Ridiculing him because he had stupid allergies. Hoarding money from him while she blew all their cash on stupid garage sale finds, and that home shopping channel where she bought those ridiculous little trinkets. Ceramic kitty cats and frogs to sit around and collect dust. Hell, he’d dump them all in the trash tomorrow.
Yes, he was free now. Free from his mother.
A laugh rumbled in his chest as he let himself inside the house. He kicked off his boots, not bothering to wipe the mud off before traipsing across the white linoleum. She wouldn’t be here to fuss at him in the morning.
Or ever again, for that matter.
Adrenaline pumped through him as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, opened it and took a long swig. She couldn’t tell him not to drink anymore, either. Or what to eat or where to go or who he could hang out with.
No, he was free of the old witch. Finally.
He yanked his T-shirt over his head as he walked to the den, tossed it on the sofa and turned on the tube, settling the remote on MTV. The loud, heavy metal music rocked through him as the cold beer settled in his belly.
His mother’s face floated into his mind again, and he smiled, adrenaline surging through him as he remembered the sight of her panicked expression. The first moment she realized he was going to kill her. Then the sound of her last breath, whistling out with her life, growing weaker, more feeble. The rain dripping down her cheeks like teardrops. The kudzu vine he’d wrapped around her neck until he’d choked the life from her.
She would never scream at him again. Or call him a worthless ass or cuss him for being lazy and stupid. Because he had outsmarted her.
Yes, he had just kissed his mother goodbye, along with all his problems.
He cranked up the TV volume a little louder and strummed his imaginary electric guitar, keeping perfect time with the rhythm. Tomorrow he’d call his buddies and arrange a party to celebrate. Tell Trash to bring over some pot.
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