Famished, Meghan O'Flynn [free ebooks romance novels .txt] 📗

Snowflakes pelted the skylights and blocked out the sun like the room was wrapped in a protective blanket.

Dominic was already awake and typing on his laptop, his eyes jumping in concentration. From across the room I took in the curves of his toned body in flannel pants and a white T-shirt. That tiny curl of dark hair that sometimes stuck to his forehead. Delicious.

He looked up.

I smiled. ‘‘Morning.”

“Good morning,” he said. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No.” I rolled onto my side toward him. “Though I wouldn’t mind if you had.”

He set the computer aside, a touch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I have meetings all day, and then this evening, there’s that new-hire welcome I told you about last week.”

“But it’s Saturday.”

He chuckled, climbed into the bed next to me and leaned close to my ear. “Let’s say I wake you up appropriately, then come back home and put you to bed even more nicely?”

I snuggled against him. “Anything you say, sir.”

His fingers sank into me, and I forgot everything else.

I was still in bed when he emerged from the closet dressed in gray pin-stripes and a tailored blue shirt that set off his eyes.

“Hurry back.”

He pinched my nipple. “You know I will.” Then he was gone.

I stretched my still-throbbing muscles and headed to the weight room, nude.

My workout clothes hung from the hook on the wall, where they belonged. I tugged them on, climbed on the treadmill, and appraised my face in the mirror. I looked different, and it wasn’t just the hair.

I smiled. My reflection smiled back. Then I turned up the speed, pushing myself harder than usual, testing my limits.

I can do it. I had dealt with trauma and grief, with a crazy father and a crazy boyfriend and a psycho killer colleague. I could deal with running just a little faster.

An hour and a half later, I was showered, exhausted, and satisfied. I toasted a couple of English muffins and made a beeline for the library. I had a feeling eating in there would be frowned upon, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Such a rebel.

I laughed aloud.

I set the plate on the end table and walked to the shelf to grab my book, still tucked into the same place it always had been, so Dominic wouldn’t know I was reading it. Every time I opened my mouth to tell him, my face got hot, and I changed the subject. Maybe I was embarrassed for reading a little kid’s book when he was reading about economics. Or maybe it was because every time I touched the leather cover, I had a fit of nostalgia as if I was rediscovering some missed thing from my childhood.

Maybe it is something I missed. While everyone else was reading stuff like this, I was—

I pushed the thought away. I wasn’t that girl anymore. I was here now.

The couch beckoned, soft and warm. Even the frozen chess game seemed comforting, a piece of memory steeped in love that I could almost share by being nearby.

The worn book cover was satiny under my fingertips. I took a bite of my muffin and flipped to the page where I’d left off, wondering what Alice would do next.

The department was still riding the wave of praise for catching Robert Fredricks. Graves spent his time strutting around and grinning like a fool for the cameras, but the continuous press conferences were starting to give Petrosky a headache. He assumed that things would die down once the trial began.

Or maybe not. There was plenty of sensational evidence, more than enough to create a media circus. The search warrant had unearthed the photos plus two sets of leather restraints and a bloody scalpel found underneath the kitchen sink behind some cleaning supplies. DNA tests had confirmed the blood belonged to Antoinette and Timothy Michaels, Fredericks’s final victims. The case would be open and shut. Everyone was expecting a conviction, even the court-appointed attorney who’d reluctantly agreed to represent him.

Petrosky closed his notepad and headed for the front of the building where yet another question-and-answer press conference would be held. Graves had given him the opportunity to address the public this time. Maybe because Morrison had told the chief that they, not Graves, had found the lead on Fredricks. Or maybe Graves didn’t want to risk stonewalling them and causing a scene when Petrosky hit him in the mouth. Either way, it was about time he got a little respect, even if he’d have preferred a mention in the paper instead of having to give a speech. Maybe that’s why that fucker had offered him the speech.

Petrosky pushed the glass doors leading to the outdoor pavilion, and the steady buzz of the journalists swelled in his ears. But there was another noise…flashbulbs? No. Footsteps.

Petrosky turned and raised an eyebrow as he watched Morrison dash toward him up the hallway, red-faced and panting.

“Petrosky! Wait!”

“Come on, dude! Looks like someone needs to hit the gym.”

Morrison grabbed the door handle. “We need to talk.”

Petrosky glanced at the throng of reporters. “You earned it, Petrosky,” Graves had said. It might have been bullshit, but it felt damn good.

“Right now?” Petrosky asked.

“Yeah, now.” Morrison released the door handle. “There’s not going to be any trial.”

The place reeked with the noxious mix of urine and feces that hadn’t yet been cleaned from the floor. Directly above the small puddle hung remnants of white cloth, presumably, the bedsheet that had been looped around ol’ Jimmy’s neck before they’d cut him down.

Petrosky took a breath through his mouth. Not good. “So, where is it?”

Morrison grabbed a single sheet of paper from the now bare mattress and handed it to Petrosky.

And pity, like a naked newborn babe,

Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubim, horsed

Upon the sightless couriers of the air,

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,

That tears shall drown the wind.

Petrosky rubbed his temple. “What the fuck is it with this guy and the rhymes? Who does he think he is?”

“Shakespeare,” Morrison said.

Shakespeare. Not the final bloody verse from the poem he’d left at the crime scenes. An uneasy ache settled in Petrosky’s stomach. What the hell was this guy doing?

He passed the page back to Morrison. “So, Mr. Big Shot literature major, what the hell does it mean?”

Morrison furrowed his brows. “It’s about the death of an innocent.”

“Lots of innocent women died at his hands.” The tattered bedsheet mocked Petrosky from the ceiling, twisting in the draft from the heating vent. The murky light from the hallway stippled the cotton with glaring yellow eyeballs.

Morrison stared at the poem. “Yeah, they did. It could be a confession, I guess.