He pulls me back up by my hair so our eyes meet. The red Devil mask is horrifying, but maybe I wanted to be afraid, to be chased, to be taken. Perhaps he’s right—I’m not made for white picket fences and garden parties with fucking Betty.
“Yes,” I moan as my pussy walls flutter with the last remaining waves of release.
“You might think I claimed you tonight, pretty girl,” he grits out between clenched teeth as his hips stutter. I can tell he’s close to coming. “But I’ve been yours since we were kids. Since the moment I saw that sweet girl with fiery red hair and a beautiful splash of freckles staring up at me, begging me to save her from all the pain and cruelty of the world, I’ve been yours. And I am never—” He groans as his release hits him. Warmth splatters along the inside of my walls, coating me in his cum. “I am never letting you get away ever again, Ali.” The final words he pants out between heaving breaths as his release continues. Rope after rope of cum fills me in the most delicious way. I feelhis cock throb with each wave of his release inside of me.
“Even when we’re ghosts,” he mumbles against my brow as he collapses on top of me, holding himself up on his elbows so he’s cradling me in his warmth without squishing me. I snuggle up against the soft cotton of his T-shirt and soak up his smell—smoke and pine. It smells like home. Despite myself, I think I’m falling for this man, and as much as that should terrify me, at this moment, I just feel content.
“Even when we’re ghosts,” I whisper back softly.
We sit like that for a long while, savoring each other. If I could escape the entire world and stay right here, in this exact moment with him forever, I would.
But we can’t.
“So,” I eventually whisper against the solid muscle of his shoulder while his fingers lightly brush soft circles across my bare skin. “What do we do now?”
TWENTY-THREE
Detective Kaitlin Pierce
Ten Days Since Allison Clarke’s Murder
Ihate coming to the county jail. It’s a depressing, stagnant place where hope and dreams shrivel and die. The entire building seems to vibrate with decades worth of resentment and ruin. Just being inside puts me in a foul mood.
Unfortunately, if I want to talk to Brody Clarke, I have no choice but to come here. The man in question sits across from me, looking considerably worse than the last time I interviewed him. Lines crease the corners of his bloodshot eyes and his skin is sallow and graying. He certainly looks distraught, I’ll givehim that. The first time I sat down to talk to Brody Clarke was months ago when he was suspected of being involved with one woman’s disappearance. A few months later, his wife is dead and he’s the prime suspect. Either this man is a real piece of shit who has hurt multiple women in this town, or he’s one very unlucky innocent man. I’m determined to find out which it is.
“Detective,” he greets without looking up from the cold metal table he’s seated at. “We meet again.”
“Mr. Clarke,” I address as I move to sit in the seat across from him. “How have you been?”
A hollow laugh leaves his lips. “How have I been?” he asks incredulously. “Well, let’s see—you accused me of kidnapping and murdering some random bitch I hooked up with once, arrested me, then had to let me go due to lack of evidence. When I got out, I learned my wife was having an affair, and now I’m in prison because you all think I murdered her and won’t believe me that she had a stalker. So, how thefuckdo you think I’m doing, Detective?”
Spit flies from the corner of his mouth and his normally neatly styled hair is disheveled. He looks unhinged. His usual cool and collected demeanor has slipped, revealing the Devil that lies beneath. For the first time, I see a man fully capable of murdering his wife in cold blood.
“Did you?” I ask him in a steady, even tone. “Murder your wife, I mean?”
His eyes widen and he looks like he might jump across the table at me. His knuckles turn white against the cold steel between us as he grips the edge. My muscles instinctively tighten, readying for the perceived threat.
“No,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “No, Detective, I didn’t kill my wife. I didn’t kill that other teacher. I’m being framed.”
This has been his defense the entire time—someone hasbeen setting him up, planting evidence, fabricating a web of lies in which Brody Clarke has become ensnared within. It’s a shit defense, honestly. His money bought him one of the best lawyers on the West Coast, so you’d think he could come up with something better.
“I believe you,” I tell him as I bend to rummage through my messenger bag. A lock of long blonde hair has come loose from my ponytail and lands in my eyes. I don’t need to see Brody Clarke’s face to know he’s surprised. “I don’t believe you killed your wife, Mr. Clarke. However…” I retrieve the worn manila folder from my bag and bring it up to the table top. Opening the page to a faded picture, I slide it across the table. “Tell me abouther.”
The man across from me takes a moment to survey me, no doubt distrustful of my motives. He glances down at the picture and pales. His body instantly tenses and he quickly averts his gaze.
“I’ve never seen that girl before,” he tells me without looking down at the photograph.
“Are you sure? Did you get a good look?” I prompt, knowing full well that he doesn’t need to study the photo. He knows exactly who she was.
“I said I’ve never seen that girl before, Detective.” His tone is curt and authoritative. He’s the type of man who’s used to people bending to his will.
But I’ve never been one to back down.
“Interesting,” I say offhandedly as I slide the folder back across the table to myself. “You were accused of raping her…well, of being one of the boys who raped her.”
Brody Clarke’s face turns so red I worry he might have an aneurysm. His eyes bulge and his nostrils flare. He reminds me of an angry bull.
“Those records are sealed,” he grits out through clenchedteeth. “The detectives said the accusations were unfounded.”
