Zoey 101: An Unexpected Encounter

Chapter 6

"Well, I can’t say I’m surprised," Michael remarked the next day, leaning against the door frame as he watched Chase collect a stack of files from his desk. "I knew you’d be off the Spine Killer case the second I heard about Kuyper's escape."

"I’m that predictable?" Chase said drily.

"When it comes to her, yeah."

The note of disapproval in his partner’s voice made him glance up from the papers he was shuffling through. "What, you going to get on my case again?" Chase grumbled. "Because you did a good job of that 2 years ago."

Michael crossed his arms tightly over his stocky chest. " You had no business getting romantically involved with her."

"We didn’t get romantically involved," he answered through clenched teeth.

Was emotionally involved the same as romantically involved? he wondered.

Yes, the voice in his head said with certainty.

Fine, so he’d harbored romantic feelings toward Zoey back then, feelings that had culminated into one mind-blowing kiss. But he hadn’t allowed it to go any further. After Kuyper's sentencing he’d ended it, and he didn’t regret the decision to walk away. She’d just lost her parents, for Pete’s sake—the last thing Zoey had needed in her life was a man with enough baggage to fill an airport.

"You fell in love with her," Michael countered.

He ignored the remark, tucked his case files under his arm and strode toward the door. "Trainer gave me a few weeks to leave," he called over his shoulder. "See you when I get back."

Without waiting for a response, he stepped into the fluorescent–lit corridor and left the station. Winston was waiting in the narrow front hall when Chase unlocked the door to his small downtown apartment. He dropped the files on the credenza and bent down to pet the golden Lab whining with excitement at his feet.

"Hey, buddy," he greeted the wiggling dog. He rubbed behind Rocky’s ears, and was rewarded by a slobbery lick to the face. "You’re going to have to calm down when we get to Zoey’s. Can’t have you driving your new roommate crazy with that unbridled enthusiasm."

Rocky yipped, then rolled onto his back, legs sticking up in the air as he waited for a belly rub.

Chase obliged, all the while wondering why it was so damn easy to please an animal when he couldn’t seem to do anything right for the humans in his life. The officers on the force loved him, patted him on the back and called him a hero each time he put a murderer behind bars, but the women he’d dated? His own family? Those relationships were nonexistent.

He wasn’t one for self–pity, but he was well aware of his flaws. He was a workaholic. He had commitment issues. Oh, and the kicker—he had wife–abuser blood running through his veins. A total head case, that’s what he was.

He didn’t deserve a woman like Zoey. Hadn’t deserved her then, and didn’t deserve her now.

With a sigh, he rose to his feet. "Come on, Roc, let’s go pack up your stuff. We need to report for bodyguard duty."

* * *

Satan Kuyper yanked on the brim of his Black Hawks cap as he approached the FedEx counter, holding the short–but–sweet letter he’d penned in his left hand. The woman behind the counter greeted him with a smile and asked, "Hello, sir, what can I do for you today?"

Using a Southern drawl, which he’d perfected after listening to his Georgia–born cellmate drone on for hours upon hours, he said, "I need to send this by courier, ma’am, with a guarantee that it will arrive by the end of the day."

Another big, fake smile. "I can take care of that."

The clerk barely glanced at him as she got an envelope and told him which boxes he needed to fill out. He scribbled away, making sure his handwriting was near unintelligible, paid for the delivery in cash and hightailed it out of there.

Outside, he breathed in the late–spring air, glancing at the pedestrians bustling past him on the street. A woman smiled at him as she walked by, and he wondered if that smile would still be on her face if she knew who he was. What he was. An escaped convict.

Bitterness coiled in his gut, wrapping around his intestines like an angry cobra. Prison. Even now, 2 years after the sentencing, he couldn’t believe he’d been sent to prison—and why? For killing his daughter’s murderer?

That bastard Brooks had deserved to die. After what he’d done to Delia, death was even too good a punishment. But Kuyper had taken care of that.

But you forgot one, the raspy voice in his head murmured.

"Oh, I didn’t forget," he muttered back.

A passing businessman shot him a funny look, and, realizing he really ought to remain inconspicuous, Kuyper quit talking to himself and headed toward the car he’d hot–wired the night he’d escaped from the hospital. Another handy skill he’d learned from his cellmate.

Driving out of the city, Kuyper glanced at the clock on the dash. Ten–thirty in the morning. The clerk from FedEx had assured him the letter would arrive before 6:00 p.m. He would have liked to be there when the girl opened the letter, when she realized her destiny as she read those two short sentences.

An eye for an eye, the voice said gleefully.

Kuyper nodded. "She deserves to die."

The child needs to pay for the father’s sins. Don’t screw it up this time.

"I didn’t screw up before," he said angrily, slamming on the brakes as he reached a red light. "I couldn’t get to her before. She was with friends."

You chickened out. You let Delia down.

Kuyper rubbed his temples, which were beginning to pound with pain and irritation. "Shut up," he ordered. "Shut the hell up and let me do my job."

The voice said nothing, but he could hear the faint echo of mocking laughter in his head.

"She’ll die," he mumbled to himself. "Just like her murdering father and her weak, pathetic mother."

That’s right, the voice agreed, making a reappearance. Zoey Brooks will die.