The Obsidian Collection Read online

  “Geddings!” Jackson screamed.

  Geddings froze, and Jackson put a warning shot in the spool table. Gedding grabbed a dangling piece of the glass supports, spun and hurled it a Jackson. Ducking again, Jackson lost sights on Geddings, and the bastard took the opportunity to kick out a little more the glass. He was already half-way through the window by the time Jackson re-aimed the gun.

  “Stop!” Jackson yelled. “Freeze!”

  Gedding paid no attention to the directive and slid on through the window. Jackson planted another bullet in the spool to spook him, but it didn’t work. He ran to the remains of the window and tried to look into the dark beyond the glass, but the light in the Florida room cut the view out with its glare.

  “I thought I heard a gunshot. Did you discharge your weapon?”

  Jackson turned to find the uniform standing there. “Geddings was in here,” he growled and stalked towards him. “I will have your badge and your ass!”

  “He was in here?”

  Jackson pointed out into the woods behind the house. “Not worth it,” he answered. “It’s too dark, and that’s the state park back here. We won’t find him.” Jackson scrubbed a hand down his face. “Get the crime scene unit back out here. Get me a competent uniform on the front door—someone who isn’t playing fucking Candy Crush—and get me a guard on Whitney Geddings door at the hospital.”

  “Detective-” the uniform started in.

  Jackson whirled on him. “You let the prime suspect back into the crime scene! Get your ass out of my sight!”

  The officer moved to obey Jackson’s orders, and disappeared into the house. He heard the door slam, and a moment later, the officer reappeared in the door.

  “You do know who that was, right?”

  “A pain in my ass?” Jackson answered.

  “He’s the untouchable. We don’t bother with him anymore—.”

  Jackson walked up to him. “I don’t give a shit. You let the suspect back into the crime scene. I will get your ass fired just like I would have anyone else’s. You will be written up.”

  “Watch yourself, Detective,” the uniform warned, holding out the phone in his hand. “It will come back to bite you. Chief Brody.” He offered the phone again.

  Jackson took the phone. Whitney needed protection.

  The house was dark. He reached for the light switch and stopped.

  After the longest night Jackson had experienced in years, he didn’t want to turn on the light. Turning on the light would show him the house that Lana had decorated. It would show him everything he was missing in his life.

  Jackson stumbled into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. Grabbing one of the beers on the shelf, he popped it and chugged it in one shot. It wouldn’t really help, but the attempt to drown everything out was a welcome relief. The taste of the beer and the cool drink started to relax him. Tossing the empty can, he grabbed another and slammed the door, plunging the room back into pitch black.

  Kicking off his shoes at the bottom of the stairs, Jackson managed to stumble up, drinking the beer and shedding clothes awkwardly at the clothes hamper. No matter what, he wouldn’t sully his bedroom—their bedroom—with crap that came with his job.

  He fell into bed, placing the beer on the nightstand. He flicked on the light there, the one that wouldn’t blind him at four a.m. It was ludicrous that he was home this late. He’d disregarded his own rules to leave work at work and no matter what, be home in bed by midnight.

  He wondered why Whitney affected him this way. He’d just broken rules he hadn’t broken in the seven years since he put Lana in ground.

  Well, that was half the fucking problem, wasn’t it? He missed Lana desperately. Beyond desperately. Jackson would have given anything, at all, to have her back. He would have killed for her; he would have died for her. But that wasn’t the way cancer worked. It just ate the person alive, destroying them from the inside out. Leaving the person who loved them alone, with empty dreams, empty arms, and an empty heart.

  So why Whitney?

  He paused. Maybe it wasn’t Whitney. Maybe it was Geddings. Maybe it was Sean. Maybe it was the way the asshole treated her. Geddings had a beautiful little wife, who clearly was dedicated to him. She tried to keep him happy. And he beat the shit out of her. Probably for some perceived slight about the way dinner tasted, or the way she had dusted. Instead of treasuring every goddamn fucking minute he had with her, she was a punching bag. A ragdoll.

  Jackson rolled and looked at the picture of Lana on the nightstand.

  “For you, gorgeous. For every kiss I can’t give you. I will get Whitney out of there.”

  He fell asleep imaging it was actually Lana smiling at him and not just a faded picture.

  “I would really like it if you could call off your officers, just a little,” Whitney said by way of greeting.

  Jackson closed the door to the hospital room. Though he wasn’t sure why, he didn’t want the uniform in the hall listening in. “Feeling better, Mrs. Geddings?”

  “Quite a bit, actually.” Her voice was still raspy, but that was hardly surprising. Being nearly strangled to death would do that to a person. “I think I’m going to break out of here today or tomorrow. That’s your lingo, right?” she asked with a playful smirk.

  “That’s great,” Jackson said. “You look a lot better.”

  “So you’re saying I looked bad.” She stared at him, her expression deadpan.

  Jackson cleared his throat. “Well, I mean, no …” he stammered, feeling like an awkward fifteen-year-old boy. It had been a long time since he’d felt like a fifteen-year-old boy. However, that was something he shouldn’t think about at the moment.

  A small smile stretched across Whitney’s face.

  “You know what,” he said, feeling bold, “yeah, I’m going to be frank with you. You looked like a woman who’d been beat half to death.” The words were out of his mouth before the full effect of her smile hit him in the gut. And then it was too late. The heavy words hung in the air between them and the tiny bit of happiness he’d witnessed before was gone.

  Whitney’s gaze shifted from Jackson to the hands folded in her lap. Maybe she wasn’t ready for frank. Maybe she only looked like conditions had improved, and she still needed to be handled with kid gloves.

  Fuck that.

  Whitney needed to understand the gravity of the situation, because the next time he was called, if it came to that, she would probably be in worse shape than this time. That was the way the systematic abuse. It always escalated, and usually, the victim was the last to realize how out of control the situation was.

  But it wasn’t going to come to that. Because she was going to help him lock the bastard away.

  He grabbed a chair from against the wall and pulled it beside her bed. “Ms. Geddings, I’m here to help you. I promise you; we both want the same thing.”

  “I’m sorry, what was your name again, detective?” she asked.

  The fact that Whitney didn’t remember his name shouldn’t have felt like a smack to the face. It shouldn’t. After all, she’d been in no condition for conversational niceties the day before. And he was just the detective assigned to investigate her case.

  But for some reason, he wanted her to know his name.

  He wondered what it would sound like rolling off her tongue. He imagined it would sound sweet. There’s something about a beautiful woman saying your name. It did things to a man. Lana had had the sweetest voice.

  What was his problem? She might be beautiful, but this was a job. He wouldn’t be standing in this woman’s room, checking out her small frame tucked into bed, and wondering about the sound of his name on her lips, but for the job.

  “Detective Ogden,” he said, stressing the ‘detective’ to remind himself of his place in the world. “Detective Jackson Ogden,” he finished because he was only human.

  “Well, Detective Ogden, I really doubt that you and I want the same things here.” Her expression gave nothing away, bu
t the words made him wonder if she was going to make this hard on him.

  Jackson pulled the recorder out of his pocket for the second time in two days. “I’m not the bad guy, Ms. Geddings. I’m on your side.” Whitney eyed the offensive mechanism skeptically, making it clear that she wasn’t convinced.

  “I just need a few minutes of your time today. I promise I’ll go easy on you. I’ll be gentle.” Whitney arched an eyebrow at him. He hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but her expression combined with the sexual chasm he’d inadvertently injected between them caused an onslaught of dirty thoughts to take root in his imagination.

  The first dirty thoughts he’d had in seven years. Quite honestly, he’d thought that that part of him had died with Lana.

  He imagined that Whitney liked it gentle. She seemed like she was all softness and sweetness. However, he’d also noticed a bit of a spark in her today. There was a bit of sass beneath her gentleness, which was a vast improvement over the sad, voiceless woman he met the day before. It lit a spark of hope that she was ready to walk away from her husband.

  “I’d appreciate that,” she said. A mischievous smile graced her face. “But before we get started, there’s something I need to tell you …” Her voice trailed off, leaving him hanging on her words. She picked a piece of lint from the sheet and flicked it to the floor.

  He wondered what it was she wanted to tell him off the record. Was it about the investigation? Or something else? “Okay, hit me with it,” he said, disliking any kind of mystery when it came to Whitney Geddings.

  “I … well … the thing is,” she started and then paused for dramatic effect. “I really don’t like the sound of my voice on tape.” Jackson let out a belly laugh, and the edges of Whitney’s mouth turned up in a full on smile.

  “I thought you were going to tell me something important.”

  “It is important,” Whitney said, laughing with him. “It’s of vital importance. You haven’t heard it. I sound like the bad brakes on my grandma’s old ’72 Pinto. It’s the reason I never leave voicemails.”

  “I can’t imagine that,” Jackson said, fiddling with the recorder.

  “You can’t imagine what? That my voice sounds like the most hideous Ford of all time or you can’t imagine the inconvenience of never leaving voicemails?” she teased.

  “I can’t imagine you sounding like anything hideous. In fact, there’s nothing Pinto about you. I mean, if I had to compare you to a Ford, I’d have to say you’re more of a Mustang.”

  Were they flirting? Like dirty thoughts, Jackson hadn’t realized he still remembered how to flirt.

  “A Mustang, huh? It’s the voice, isn’t it? It isn’t always this throaty.”

  The reminder of her husband having his hands around her neck brought the flirting to an abrupt halt. “Yeah, I guess that brings me back to why I’m here.” Jackson waved the recorder between them. “I wish I didn’t have to put you through this, but it’s standard procedure. It’s really just for me though. You know, so I don’t forget anything you say or get it wrong when I write up my report.”

  “As long as it doesn’t end up being played aloud in court. I’d prefer my testimony be live.”

  Hope flared and burned a hole through Jackson. She’d just said she was planning on testifying. He’d heard it with his own ears, and he hadn’t even had to make all kinds of promises he had no control over. Maybe if she were ready to testify against her husband, she was also ready to leave him altogether.

  “You’re ready to press charges?” he asked with more enthusiasm than he usually showed to his witnesses. “That’s great. After yesterday, I thought you were going to need some persuading.”

  “Is that why you’re here? To be persuasive?” she asked, grinning.

  “Well, I was planning on it. I can be pretty damn persuasive when I want to be.”

  “I imagine that you can, Detective Ogden. I imagine that you can. I probably should’ve played a little harder to get, but to be honest, my sister was here earlier this morning.” Whitney looked down at her lap.

  Is she blushing? God she was a sweet little thing.

  “So she did my job for me? How fortuitous for me?”

  “Fortuitous?” Whitney asked, looking up again. “He’s persuasive and has an astounding vocabulary.”

  Jackson chuckled nervously. He wasn’t used to compliments. “I had a grandma. I lived with her for a while during high school. She liked to do the New York Times crossword on Sundays and insisted on making it a family affair.”

  Whitney smiled. “That’s sweet, Detective.”

  “Jackson.”

  Whitney’s eyes widened. “Are we officially on a first name basis now?”

  Jackson stuffed the recorder back in his pocket. “I think it’s appropriate. I mean; I’ve told you about my grandma. You’ve told me about your irrational fear of tape recorders. For some strange reason, I feel like kissing your sister. I think we almost have to be on a first name basis.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t kiss my sister.” Whitney looked shocked at her own admission. “I just mean, she’ll be back in a few minutes. I think it could be awkward for all of us if you guys start making out.”

  Jackson had no idea what was going on in Whitney’s head right now, but every single thing that came out of her mouth made him wish for a little piece of her headspace. “Okay, so no making out with your sister. I’m glad you’ve laid out the ground rules. Shouldn’t be hard to resist.”

  “I don’t know, Jackson. She’s the pretty one and a real flirt. You seem like a very controlled man, but she has a way of getting under your skin.”

  Jackson fingered the silver dollar in his pocket. The same silver dollar that Lana had given him on his first day on the force. For luck, she’d said.

  “She couldn’t possibly be prettier than you, Whitney. And I don’t usually ‘make-out’ with women while I’m on duty. So I think we’ll be okay today.” If he weren’t mistaken, she looked a little sad. “I do need to thank her though for convincing you to testify. She must care about you a lot. Are you two close?”

  “You could say that,” Whitney said. “We have a lot in common.”

  “Is she aware of how he treats you?” Jackson asked. If Whitney’s sister had firsthand knowledge of the abuse, she might make a good witness. Obviously, the sister wanted Sean Geddings behind bars. She’d probably be more than willing to help keep her sister safe.

  “It was just the one time, Detective. She wasn’t there. As I told you yesterday, no one was there.”

  Jackson didn’t miss the turn in Whitney’s voice or the fact that she’d reverted to calling him ‘detective.’ after the bald-faced lie that Geddings never hit her. “Whitney,” Jackson said on a sigh. “The thing is that women, like you, don’t usually end up in the hospital after the first time. There’s an escalation period. Based on what I’ve seen of your injuries, I can’t help but wonder how many times he’s hurt you before.”

  “Never. Never before,” she said. Her voice was soft, more mellow.

  “Whitney, we can put him away based on what he did yesterday. It’s enough. But the judge will throw the book at him, if he’s made a habit of this. The longer he’s away, the safer you’ll be. I want to help you. Just like your sister wants to help you.”

  “I promise that this was the first time he’s gotten out of control. And he’d had a bad day at work. They’re laying people off, and he’s worried about his job, you know? He came home and had too much to drink. I opened my mouth about something I shouldn’t have, and he just kind of lost it.” Whitney smiled weakly before adding, “For a minute.”

  Jackson had seen this more times than he cared to recount. Even when an abused wife had finally decided she’d had enough, they were rarely willing to admit to the entire truth. It was easier to admit to just the most recent episode and bury the past. Guilt over letting it go on as long as they had was part of it. But, unfortunately, love and a sense of obligation usually played a bigger role.


  Jackson suspected that Whitney had been hiding the abuse for years. He wondered if she still loved Sean despite all he’d done to her. Was it love or guilt that had her believing that she deserved what she’d gotten?

  “There’s no excuse, Whitney. Nothing you did. Nothing you said justifies that kind of behavior. A real man doesn’t beat his wife no matter how bad his day was. Even if she wants to talk about how she spent the afternoon in bed with his best friend. There’s absolutely no excuse for it. You need to ask yourself, what kind of man does that.”

  “It was just the one time,” she repeated, trying to convince them both and solidifying in his mind that this definitely wasn’t the first time she’d been beat senseless.

  Tears welled in her eyes, causing Jackson to retreat a bit. He’d gotten enough from her today. Jackson started to reach for her hand but stopped himself. They weren’t friends. He had no more right to touch her than her husband had beating the hell out of her. “This wasn’t your fault. Remember that, Whitney. Ask yourself, what kind of man does this to his wife? To the woman he loves. Would it be okay if your sister’s husband came home and did this to her?” He gestured to her bruised and battered body.

  The sorrow on Whitney’s face was evident. He’d struck a nerve, but he figured that was okay. After their conversation, he had a better feel for Whitney and what she could endure. She may not know yet how strong she was, but she was going to find out. He’d make sure of it.

  “Just think about it. We can talk more later, after you get out of the hospital. You’ll have to come down to the station to make a formal statement anyway.”

  A throat cleared behind him. As Jackson turned to see who was intruding upon his interview, ready to pounce if it was the uniform from the hall, a whisper of a voice, so low that he wondered if he’d imagined it, voiced a question that would haunt him later that night. “What kind of woman lets him do it?”