Page 23 of Lovely Violent Things

“Is that so.” My nostrils flare, her sweet scent torturously, dangerously close to pushing me over the edge. “I’m not opposed to you testing your theory, sweetness.” I lower my mouth close to hers, tasting her uneven breaths. “Say the word, and I’ll shred these musty old books while I fuck you senseless on top of them.”

She licks her lips, a goddamn taunt, and I hungrily follow the path of her tongue with a depraved craving that nearly sends me to my knees.

The dare hangs in the splinter of air between us. I know what she’s doing, but if my little profiler thinks she can psych me out by coming on strong, she’ll besorelymistaken.

“I don’t rattle,” I say, gripping the beltloop tighter. “Hurt me or fuck me, Halen, but don’t use lame psychology tactics. It’s beneath you.”

I’m hit with a dose of her saccharine fear. Whatever she glimpses in my expression causes her to break away. My jaw sets hard. Disappointment is a fist to my guts.

“I’m tired of games,” she says, a hint of exhaustion deflating her shoulders.

“Then don’t play them.”

“I just want to find them.”

“We will.”

She searches my features, trying to suss out the truth. With a slow nod, she looks again at the bookshelves high on the wall. “This room didn’t belong to Landry,” she says, changing the topic as if the realization suddenly comes to her.

Inhaling a deep breath, I rub the back of my neck, my blood still a deafening roar inside my ears, my cock straining painfully against the closure of my slacks. I shamelessly reach down and adjust myself, loving how a pretty pink hue tinges her face at my crass act.

“You’re right. It’s too neat and organized.” I fold my arms across my chest. “And indexed. To a frightening degree. Almost an OCD-like quality.” I watch Halen move toward one of the bookcase ladders. “Where better to meditate for years in solitude than a private library. Like your own personal cave. Just like Zarathustra.”

“You failed to mention that before,” she says, her tone admonishing.

Shefails to see how clearly she comes to insights when she gives in to us, freeing herself of other constraints. “The mansion is a hoarder’s den. The library isn’t. I felt it was obvious.”

“How many years did Zarathustra meditate in his cave, ten?” she says, referring to Nietzsche’s allegory, the one the Overman suspect is using as a guide to ascend to a god-like state of consciousness.

“Yes,” I respond. “Then he descended his mountain to bring the gift of the Overman to the people.” As I say it, I think about a lecture I once gave, where I lambasted Nietzsche and Jung for their blatant lifting of the shaman Primal Man. Wellington was there, my first candid interaction with him.

“A decade is a long time,” Halen says, drawing my attention. “Landry was never seen in town. No one talked to him, or communicated with him. If someone else was living in this mansion with him, would anyone know?”

“Most people don’t have the patience and discipline to meditate and study for a decade. I think you’ll find your Overman wannabe descended the mansion library much sooner.”

She nods absently, distracted. “Still, if the perpetrator spent any length of time here, then there has to be something left behind in this room.” She climbs onto the bookcase ladder.

I seat myself on the desk and pull my knee up, much more interested in Halen’s jean-clad ass as she ascends the ladder than the books. “It’s also obvious that Landry knew the perpetrator well. Landry had money, enough resources to provide the suspect with all this. A gift to someone he values, respects. They were probably close.”

She nudges the rolling ladder to the side to search a shelf. “Close like family? The background check on him turned up an estranged brother living in another state. He has no other living relatives.”

“Blood doesn’t always make family,” I say, suppressing an unwanted memory from far too long ago.

She casts a curious glance down at me, as if I’ve said something insightful.

“Don’t read into that, Dr. St. James. You know even a recluse needs an anchor, some form of human contact.”

She arches an accusatory eyebrow before she returns to her hunt.

“Landry was a sacrifice,” I say. When the perpetrator injected him with hemlock, he set Landry up to be the prime suspect. Conveniently, a dead one who couldn’t talk. “He was maybe even a willing one.”

“I considered that,” she says. “The perpetrator could have manipulated Landry to attack us and take the fall. With all this—” she fans a hand across the books “—it’s likely Landry was devoted to the perp’s belief system. He believed in a higher purpose, one he was willing to sacrifice his life for.”

She’s so fucking close, the need burns underneath my sinew, itching my bones. So close…yet she still can’t see the most obvious connection.

“Landry could’ve also known something about the perp, something incriminating. Something this person didn’t want to get out in the event they were caught.”

“Other than their identity?” she asks.

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