Serial Escape Read online

  She knew that when he was having a hard time expressing himself, he tugged on his right ear.

  She knew that he laughed out loud when he read the comics in the newspaper, which he did every morning as a way of easing some of the pressure of his very nonfunny job.

  She knew that when he got a cold, he snored, and that it embarrassed him, and that he bought funny little nasal strips to combat the issue.

  In short, she knew him as well as a wife knew a husband—the good, the bad, the meaningless and the meaningful details of his existence—and there was a time when she’d thought that would become a reality.

  Transference.

  It was the word she repeated to herself each time she woke up from a dream full of brown eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. The concept she clung to, in order to excuse the way she felt about Lucien. She didn’t love him. She just thought she did. But the fact that he hadn’t felt the same still made her eyes sting, even three years later. Her chest ached longingly anyway. The time and the space between them had done nothing to ease the way she wanted him. It was like fresh heartbreak, every time his face crept up on her.

  Transference, she repeated silently.

  It would’ve been a little pathetic if it were anything but that.

  She hit another corner, tossed a glance back and forth, then darted across the road. She was getting closer now. And instead of being slowed by reluctance, she pushed on a little harder, a little faster. Her feet smacked the pavement, sending a roughly pleasant vibration through her feet and up her calves. The motion made her feel more powerful than she did in day-to-day life, and she liked it.

  She picked up the pace again. The houses gave way to trees, which blurred by in a green-and-brown haze. A slight hill loomed ahead, and Raven’s lungs already burned in anticipation. She dropped her body a little lower, made her stride a little shorter and pushed on.

  Halfway up, she thought her legs might give out. Her thighs and calves burned simultaneously, protesting against the effort. Raven would pay for it, when the day was over. She’d probably be sore for a week, actually. But even if she’d been thinking about that ahead of time—and had factored in the extra three kilometers added because of her relocation, five months earlier—she still wouldn’t have altered her plan.

  The burn was good. Earned. Needed. And when she reached the top of the hill, she was smiling through the pain. She had a crazy urge to lift both her hands over her head and let out a self-directed cheer. But a dark-colored car passed her on the road just then, and through its window she could see the driver. He wore a dark hood and sunglasses, and his mouth was set in a down-turned line. It solidly reminded her that this wasn’t the place for a celebration.

  Breathing heavily, Raven lifted her gaze and found the familiar wrought iron fence. Its rose accents and curling letters were taken straight from the how-to-decorate-a-cemetery handbook. Black. Pretty. But not what could be accurately described as inviting.

  Pushing off an unreasonable prickle of the hairs on the back of her neck, Raven rolled her shoulders, then stepped forward. She made her way through the gate and followed the winding road down the other side of the hill. At the bottom, she could see a row of small but ornate buildings. They were all old mausoleums, and were still used as such. But one building stood apart from the rest, and even though its exterior was much the same as the others, it was actually home to the resident caretaker and his wife. Jim and Juanita Rickson. The kindly couple—who were roughly the same age as Raven’s parents had been, and whom Raven had come to know quite well in those first, hard months by herself—would be expecting her today, so she aimed herself in that direction first.

  But when she got to the door and gave it a light tap, there was no answer. It was a little unusual for neither of them to be there. Obviously, there were outside things to be done. Lawns and pruning. Plots to be maintained or prepared. Still. One or the other usually stuck around in case visitors had questions, or in case the phone rang.

  “Jim!” Raven called, knocking again just in case. “Juanita?”

  She waited for another few moments, then decided to try a second time after her visit to her family. Brushing off another tickle of unease, she headed back up the path away from the buildings, then rerouted to the main part of the cemetery. It was a few minutes’ walk to the spot where she was headed, and the temperature seemed to be dropping and the cool breeze was fast becoming an actual win. It felt extra cold on Raven’s sweat-drenched skin. But it wasn’t the declining weather that made her shiver as her family’s three headstones came into view. It was what sat at their bases.

  Flowers.

  A mistake, maybe? But what were the chances that some person had come by with three identical bouquets and placed them against the wrong stones without noticing? They were bright and fresh, too. No wilting whatsoever. Like they hadn’t been there long at all. And the closer Raven got, the more warning bells went off in her head.

  She stole a surreptitious look back and fore, trying to subtly search for who might’ve left them. She took another few steps forward because she was afraid that if she stopped, it would draw attention to the fact that she’d noticed the oddity. Then a branch cracked from somewhere behind her, and her resolve to look normal evaporated.

  She spun and crouched at the same time. Her plan was to launch herself into a run. To take off as fast and hard as she could. But she only made it as far as the turn before she crashed straight into a terrifyingly solid, undeniably male form. And all she could do to save herself as a set of too-strong arms closed around her shoulders was let out a bloodcurdling scream, aim her knee at her assailant’s groin and pray for the best.

  Chapter 2

  The only reason Lucien was able to stop himself from taking a blow to the most unpleasant place possible was that he’d taught her the trick himself.

  Eyes or baby-maker, he thought as he stepped back to avoid her attack on the latter.

  That’s the choice that he’d teasingly given her during an impromptu self-defense lesson. He’d actually enjoyed teaching her how to take down a man twice her size. Not just because it would potentially save her from ever succumbing to the same fate she’d endured when Hanes grabbed her, but also because Lucien got to play the bad guy, and the bad guy got to put his hands on Raven. A lot. He couldn’t even regret it now as he automatically defended himself from her next move—a jab at his eyes, just like he’d shown her.

  Hands up, thumbs out.

  Lucien split the intended attack wide by driving his own arms up between hers, then pushing her hands apart. He said her name at the same time.

  “Raven.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. It wasn’t surprising, considering the wild, terrified look on her face. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, her mouth trembling with sharp breaths.

  “Raven,” he repeated, a little louder.

  It didn’t do any good. She was already on the attack again, this time in a move that was sheer desperation. Her palms drove forward and smacked hard into his chest, and in spite of his greater size and strength, the impact threw Lucian off-balance. His feet fought to stay stable, but a divot in the ground made it impossible. With arms flailing, he started to topple backward. Automatically, he grasped for something to keep himself upright. Except the only thing in reaching distance was Raven, who hadn’t quite backed off after her lunge. So his fingers closed on her. She wasn’t stable, either. His sudden grab yanked her forward, and together, they hit the ground.

  Her compact frame splayed over him, and for a moment, the pose was actually blissful. In spite of the way Lucien’s back smacked to the grass and in spite of the fact that his elbow hit a rock, it still felt damn good to have her close. The smell he remembered was the same. Her skin was as soft as it’d always been. And when her eyes at last cleared enough that she was really seeing him, the sun lost its struggle with the clouds overhead, and her irises took on that
unusual shade he’d always found so mesmerizing.

  “Lucien!”

  Her gasp made him want to groan, and not just because the first thing she’d said was his name. Hearing her familiar voice brought him right back to the last time they’d been this close. It’d been the moment Georges Hanes had received his verdict. The relief had been palpable. Almost joyful. Raven had thrown herself into his arms. Purposely, that time. Her slim arms had found purchase around his neck, her subtle curves had pressed to his body and she’d murmured how glad she was it was all over. Finally. Then she’d leaned back—but not too far back—and stared up at him, her eyes soft and expectant.

  Lucien had wanted to kiss her. To channel two months of pent-up desire into a heated meshing of mouths. To drag her to the bed. To turn the time they’d shared out of obligation and necessity into a second two months, this time out of passion and choice.

  He’d waited a heartbeat too long. Just enough time for reason and truth to step in and remind him that not only would it be crossing every professional boundary in existence, but it would also end in disaster. Lucien couldn’t give her the love and tenderness she deserved. He was capable of so much—chasing down impossible clues, putting criminals behind bars—but he wasn’t the right man for softness. Hell. He couldn’t even say the words, let alone put them into action. Yet right here, right now, it seemed like insanity not to have tried.

  Three years, he thought. What was I thinking, letting her go?

  The truth was, though, that she was never really his to let go.

  Stupid, he chastised. So stupid.

  Unconsciously, he reached up and placed his palm on the side of her face, then dropped it again before he touched her. He wished he’d been able to take a different path. So badly that it was an ache through his whole body. What would happen if he kissed her now? Would she kiss him back? Smack his face instead? Confirm what he already knew and tell him he could never be that particular brand of man for her?

  “Lucien.” She breathed again. “Is that really you?”

  He made himself focus on the present. On reality.

  “It’s me.” His voice was gruffer than he would’ve liked. “You all right?”

  “I’m—oh. Yes. Hang on.” Her face had already turned pink, and she quickly slid off him to sit back on the grass. “Sorry.”

  The loss of contact brought a rush of cold, unpleasant air. Lucien fought an urge to simply grab her and pull her back so that she was flush against him once more.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he made himself say instead, sitting up as he spoke. “Didn’t mean to the scare the crap out of you.”

  “You didn’t.” She paused. “Well, you did. But not on purpose, I assume. Or I hope. Because I don’t like to assume. But you know that.”

  In spite of the oddity of the circumstances—and in spite of the news he’d come to impart, too—Lucien chuckled. Raven’s quirky awkwardness always made him laugh. She had a knack for saying whatever random thing popped into her head. It was the exact opposite of his own conversation style, which was far more minimalist.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asked, and he swore there was a hint of hopefulness in the question.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “You missed the important bits, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  The pink in her cheeks deepened. “I was just trying to do what you taught me.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  His statement was followed by a moment of silence. Somehow, the somewhat meaningless conversation and the brief interlude after carried all the weight of three years of separation. All the questions. It was hard to bear.

  Trying to shake it off, Lucien pressed his knee to the ground, then stood and held out his hand. She eyed his palm for a second before bypassing his unspoken offer of help. She came to her feet without assistance and took a tiny step back and lifted a guarded look in his direction.

  “Lucien...” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  He opened his mouth to explain. He knew there wasn’t any point in sugarcoating it, and words weren’t his forte anyway.

  But how do I say it? How do I tell her that her nightmare is on the loose?

  He tried again, but then spied the way Raven’s eyes flicked toward her parents’ and brother’s gravesites, and he used it as a temporary stay on his explanation.

  “Something the matter?” he asked.

  She drew in a nervous breath. “Someone left flowers. Was it you?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Oh.”

  Lucien frowned. He knew Raven’s family history well enough to understand why she found it disconcerting to see the flowers there. Mr. and Mrs. Elliot had both been only children, and any relatives they had were far too distant to come bearing flowers. They were well liked in their little neighborhood, but the cemetery was almost a hundred kilometers from where they’d spent their last days. Raven’s brother, Ryan, had been a solitary guy. No wife, no girlfriend, and only a few people in his life close enough to be called friends. The flowers were definitely unusual.

  All of that...plus the fact that Georges Hanes is on the loose... It gave Lucien an icy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Dammit. You have to tell her.

  For the second time, he started to speak. This time, it wasn’t a look that stopped him. It was a God-awful, terror-filled scream.

  Lucien made a split-second decision. His job compelled him to act on the scream, but his heart wouldn’t let him abandon Raven. So he did the only thing he could. He grabbed her hand and tugged her to the source of the noise.

  * * *

  Raven’s heart had whiplash. It went from beating frantically in fear because of the flowers to slowing with relief when she realized her “attacker” was actually Detective Lucien Match, to skipping a beat when she realized it really was Lucien. And now, as they ran hurriedly down the path toward the scream, it was back to fear.

  But even with the scream, Raven was infused with a strange undercurrent of coming home. Because as inappropriate as the timing might be, her pulse surged with familiarity. With safety. With the fact that she’d missed him for the last three years. Even when she’d been blotting him away from the prominent parts of her mind, he’d still been there, just waiting for a moment like this one. One where he could pop back into her life and remind her solidly that he wasn’t gone at all.

  In the two minutes they’d been pressed together, Raven noted every detail, new and old. His silver-flecked hair was a little longer than it had been before, but it suited him. It added just a hint of wildness that she liked. He had a few more lines around his eyes, too. A hazard of the job, he’d once told her. Cops aged more quickly than the average population, he’d joked.

  But other things were the same. His mouth, for example, hadn’t changed a bit. Curved and full, and imbued with something she’d always thought of as strength. Perfect for kissing. Or so she assumed, because she’d never done more than dream about it.

  She’d also dreamed about running her fingers over his ruggedly square jaw, which was currently lined with about two days’ worth of stubble. The partial beard made her wonder what he was working on, because his shaving habits were like clockwork. He only deviated from them when he was under enormous pressure. So seeing it had filled her with an urge to ask. Which in turn made her want to ask a hundred other things.

  God, how I missed him.

  The silent admission was more an ache than anything else. Deeper than the one in her body, more biting than the cool air.

  Then a second scream cut through the air, and any good thoughts were swept away by the intensity of the sound. Lucien’s fingers tightened on hers, and their pace intensified. They were almost back to the row of mausoleums now—their roofs were just visible—and it made Raven want to stop short. Because in her head, she knew it meant something terrible. A horrible explanation for why neither Jim nor Juanita had an
swered the door. As much as she tried to tell herself it could be unrelated, or something not as bad as what flashed through her mind, Raven couldn’t sweep it away.

  And it was suddenly her pushing them to move faster. Her feet hit the ground so hard that her eyes watered. She was in front of Lucien, straining to pull him along. He was saying something. Arguing. Ordering her to stop. Logically, she knew she was headed straight into potential danger. But she couldn’t stop herself. She broke free and pushed on, nearly falling more than once as she tore down the hill.

  Her thoughts—a frightened plea—bounced in time with her feet.

  Please, no. Please, no. Please, no.

  She made it all the way to the door—and even placed her hand on the knob—before Lucien caught up to her. And he wasn’t messing around. His arms slammed into a vice around Raven’s body, and he actually lifted her up and physically moved her away from the front step. She struggled to get free, but he didn’t let go, even when she drove an elbow into his stomach.

  “Let me go!” she hollered.

  “Raven,” he said into her ear, his voice as calm as ever. “You need to let me go in first.”

  Her near-hysterical reply contrasted sharply with his tone. “But you don’t even know them!”

  “No. I don’t. But I know you. So I know you’re not armed. I know you’re scared and worried. And I know you don’t have a death wish.”

  “And you do have one?” It was a ridiculous question, and she knew it before he even answered.

  “You know that I don’t,” he said gently. “But this is my job, Raven.”

  “I know that.”

  “So let me do it, then. Tell me their names.”

  She stopped fighting and sagged against him. “Jim and Juanita.”

  “Thank you.”

  He gave her a quick squeeze—less restraining and more comforting this time—then let her go and stepped toward the door. He reached up and gave the wood two sharp taps, then immediately went for the handle, calling out in an authoritative way as he did it.