Page 34 of Savage Guardian

Her day started shitty, and it looked like it would end in a clusterfuck.

After her humiliation that morning with Hawk and Carrie, she’d hoped that some dedicated time in the studio with her instruments would be the catharsis she needed to get over it and just get the work on her album done. Well, that sort of worked. She’d spent the first several hours that morning, up to lunch, working on tweaking the last set of song lyrics before she had to lay down the vocal track. Then, she’d taken a break for lunch so she could eat and go through the box of fan mail Teddy had mentioned when she’d walked in to the studio. The box of mail was the size of a microwave box, and it was overflowing with mail and packages. She’d settled in to go through it all, a grin on her face, and gracious appreciation for her fans in her heart…but then she picked up the first box. The one on top. The one that had, apparently, been left outside the studio that morning where Teddy had picked it up and brought it inside.

To My Darling Aoibheal.

That was it. No address, no postage, just the scrawled words across the box in Sharpie. Curious and a little skeeved out that someone knew Aoibheal was at Junkbox, she cut through the tape securing the lid flaps and peeled the flaps open—

“Do you recognize the…head?” Detective Benson inquired, peering down at her from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses on a nose that was a little too big for his face. He looked like a homicide detective should, with a lightweight sport coat over a dark blue dress shirt—sans tie. His pants were pressed, black, and his shoes were shiny, black, and a little scuffed at the toes. Probably from running after perps.

“Miss McCabe?” he prodded, pulling her out of her own head.

She nodded, her body shaking so bad her words came out like she swallowed a jackhammer.

“Y-yes. I…I re-recogn-nize h-him. H-he-he is J.P-P-P Dal-Dalton,” she replied, irritated at her own inability to speak without sounding like a terrified idiot.

Youareterrified.

As she had every right to be. She’d opened a package addressed to her, and there’d been a human head, wrapped in bubble wrap, laying inside. Eyes wide, mouth agape, tongue swollen. It was a caricature of horror that would stay burned in her brain until she died.

“Who is J.P. Dalton?” the detective asked, his expression all business.

Taking a deep breath, she willed her damn mouth to make words, and slowly replied, “He’s a music reviewer who has been spewing hate about m—eh, Aoibheal—online since she uploaded her first video.” Damn, she’d almost spilled the beans about Aoibheal. The last thing she needed to deal with on top of the nightmares she would have after tonight was trying to come up with the two-hundred-thousand she’d have to pay for breaking thatfuckingNDA.

“Do you know who might have done this?” the other man with Detective Benson asked, his gaze far more intense, like he was trying to peel back her skin and see the pulse of blood moving through her veins. He’d introduced himself as Special Agent Brian Tyler after basically pushing his way on to the crime scene. Apparently, human heads in boxes required an FBI presence.

She shook her head, shuddering. “I have n-no idea. Dalton was k-kind of a-an asshole. He w-wasn’t shy about his o-opinions.” Aoibheal wasn’t the only musician he’d lambasted over the years, and she wouldn’t have been the last. The man had made a living spitting hatred and spreading his poison to a growing list of sheeple.

“Did Mr. Dalton have an opinion about you?” Special Agent Tyler asked, those intense eyes still pinned to her. Whywasa federal agent at an LVPD crime scene? She mentally shrugged, knowing how little she knew about law enforcement jurisdictions.

“Oh no, it wasn’tmehe had an opinion about it was Aoibheal,” she blurted, suddenly horrified that she’d lied to the cops. If they did an investigation, would they discover her lie? Would she go to prison? Would an NDA shield her against obstruction of justice charges?

Shit!

Special Agent Tyler pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing on her. “Aoibheal…aren’t you—”

She threw her hands up, shaking her head violently. “No! No, it’s my sister, Carrie James. She’s on her way with her manager, Jimmy Rains.” Might as well compound the lies. It wasn’t like she had anything to lose…except her career, her freedom. Not that either of those things was all that appealing anymore.

In a cloud of perfume and frantic, waving arms, Carrie came swanning into the room, her hands at her throat. Jimmy hurried in behind her, his forehead plastered with sweat, his cheeks pale.

“I’m here! I’m here!” Carrie called, practically ploughing into Special Agent Tyler, who had to catch her before she landed on her face, her forward momentum not keeping up with her six-inch heels.

Carrie gasped and looked up into Tyler’s face, offering her best terrified ingenue expression. But…the man spared her only a momentary glance before he was putting her back on her feet and taking a step back.

“Miss James?” Detective Benson asked, raising his LVPD badge.

“Yes, that’s me. What happened?” she asked, her voice husky. Was she seriously trying to throw ‘fuck me’ vibes at the homicide detective?

If the situation weren’t morbid as hell, Fae would have rolled her eyes and laughed. Nothing about Carrie should surprise her anymore.

“You sister was opening fan mail address to Aoibheal—you—when she discovered a human head in one of the packages.”

This time, the fear in Carrie’s eyes was real. Her face leached of all color and her mouth dropped open in shock.

“Oh my God!” she whimpered, her gaze flicking to Fae, pity and genuine concern for her in her eyes. “Fae?”

Fae swallowed. “It was J.P. Dalton, Carrie.”

Carrie stumbled back, tumbling onto the couch set up along the back wall of the small, sound-proofed recording room. It was the only room in the tiny studio that could hold so many people at once. The box, the head, and the letter tucked beside it were all in the capable hands of the LVPD crime lab.

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