Page 61 of Never Stay Gone
Dakota saw Shane’s eyes, reflected in the window, squeeze shut. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” Shane breathed. “Murdered. Last night—” He clamped his lips shut and shook his head.
Dakota waited, every muscle tensing, clenching, waiting for Shane to end them. Again.
Instead, the tear tracks on Shane’s face multiplied: two, then four racing down his cheeks as he clung to the window frame.
Dakota had to do something. He couldn’t just stand there and watch the love of his life suffer. Maybe Shane was about to kick him to the curb—again—but he could take it. He’d survived the first time, he’d probably survive the second. Maybe. But he couldn’t survive seeing Shane’s anguish. He strode across the office and stopped behind Shane, so close he could see his pulse, fragile and fast like a baby’s.
“Shane…” He raised his hands, let them hover uselessly over Shane’s shoulders. Dropped them, and sighed. What did you do when your lover’s ex was murdered? Where was the pithy Hallmark saying for that one?
Shane leaned backward, extending his arms until he looked like he was torn between clinging to the window and falling against Dakota. He let his head fall back, resting it on Dakota’s shoulder, and turned his face into Dakota’s neck. “Tell me this isn’t real.”
“I’m sorry.” Dakota wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist. “I’m so sorry.” He expected to hearIf only I’d stayed with her, if only I’d been there, if only she and I hadn’t broken up. She’d be alive if I’d been there—which meant,She’d be alive if I weren’t withyou.
But Shane didn’t say anything, and the minutes ticked by with Dakota holding him, Shane’s tears sliding beneath Dakota’s shirt collar.
“I need to get goin’,” Dakota finally whispered. He brushed his lips over Shane’s forehead.Let’s go to Mexico. Right now. Outrun this madman and leave all the pain behind. You and me, the way it’s supposed to be. Without this world always fuckin’ us up.
No. He couldn’t walk out on these girls, on their bones left to rot in the desert. He couldn’t walk out on Shelly, or on his promise to Shane.I’ll find out who did this.
“Find him,” Shane whispered again.
“I will. I swear it.” Dakota leaned in, kissed Shane’s forehead, and then turned away. Might be the last time, he thought as his bootheels thudded across the wooden floor. Might be the very last time.
“Dakota?”
He stilled at the door, his hand on the knob. “Yeah?”
“I love you.” Shane’s voice was nothing more than a whisper.
Dakota couldn’t say a goddamn thing back, because his throat was closing and his eyes were watering, and all he could do was jerk his head like he was a broken doll as he ripped the door open and raced out of the office, trying to escape before he came all the way apart.
Chapter Fifteen
Dakota knew nothing about Shelly.
He’d seen her drinking at Manuel’s. He’d seen her leap into Shane’s arms and kiss him like he was her Prince Charming. He’d seen that happiness descend into storm clouds, seen her and Shane fighting on Manuel’s front porch. Everything else came from gossip or his own mind running amok.
It was never a good idea to dwell on the person who took your place in the bed of the man you loved.
So he hadn’t. Shane had picked Shelly, and that was that, he’d told himself.
He hadn’t known where she and Shane lived, or the kind of home they’d built, or what kind of art and knickknacks she preferred.
Now he knew everything.
He knew she’d let whoever had killed her into the house. There were no signs of forced entry on any of the windows or doors. He knew she’d been drinking, probably with some girlfriends, if the empty wine glasses with lipstick on the rims cluttering the kitchen counter were any indication.
He knew there’d been a struggle. He knew Shelly had lost.
Shelly lay faceup on the living room carpet, dressed for bed in a pair of lace-trimmed boy shorts and a satin camisole. The camisole was torn, pulled askew on her slim body. Blood soaked the front, a river that had gushed from a stab wound in the side of her neck.
Someone had taken the glass from a framed photo, a shattered eight-by-ten, and slammed it into the side of her throat deep enough to have hit the bones in her neck. On the ground beside her, like it had fluttered from the frame, was a picture of Shelly and Shane in climbing gear, arms around each other, grand Big Bend mesas soaring behind them.
If Dakota didn’t know better, he’d have taken one look at the scene and pointed to the picture, to the smiling fiancé, and said, “He did it. You’ll find the evidence.”
The rage was there. The intimacy of the act. Faceup murder, the killer looking down into Shelly’s eyes as she died. Her face was still frozen in shock and terror.
But Shane didn’t do this.
