Shades of Passion. Virna DePaul

her father. She didn’t trust him.

      There was another woman, though. Another woman who fought for her. Wasn’t there?

      Beth struggled to remember, but her vision tunneled, focusing her attention on the long length of ribbon in the man’s hand. She reached out and stroked it. It felt smooth. Soft. And when Beth pressed the ribbon against her lips, the memory of her mother’s kisses made her weep.

      “You’re not alone,” the man said. “I’m with you. Part of you. Part of everyone. I’ll bring you to your mother. She’s waiting. All you need to do is trust me.”

      Beth’s tears dried up, and her grief turned to resolve.

      Trust me. Trust us. Trust me.

      The man’s visage blurred. Morphed into one of a female with blond hair and green eyes.

      I know her, Beth thought. She’s helped me. She can help me again.

      I’m part of everyone, the man had said. I’m part of you.

      Which meant Beth wasn’t alone. Not anymore. And she never would be.

      Not if she trusted him.

      Following the man’s instructions, Beth held the ribbon between her hands, then looped it around her throat.

      “It will hurt at first,” the man warned.

      Beth hesitated. Where had the woman gone?

      “Don’t fight it. It’s like being born again. You’ll close your eyes and sleep for a time. But when you wake up, I’ll be there. And so will your mother. You’ll finally be happy. No one will hurt you ever again.”

      “I hurt,” Beth whispered. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

      So she did what the man said until she couldn’t breathe. Until she felt pain. Until she felt fear.

      But just as he promised, it didn’t last long.

      I’m being born again, she told herself as the darkness closed in.

      And this time, the world will be beautiful.

      CHAPTER ONE

      SIMON GRANGER’S FATHER had always measured a man’s worth by his ability to man up. Didn’t matter how tired or angry or sick or sad he was—a man did what he had to. Otherwise, he was worthless. No, less than worthless. He was nothing but a bag of bones taking up space.

      That’s why, the day after his ex-girlfriend Lana Hudson was murdered by a serial killer, Simon showed up for work just like always.

      Now, six months later, he still worked. He testified in court. Occasionally he even socialized with the other members of the Special Investigations Group, a division of the California Department of Justice.

      He did what he had to. No complaints. No excuses.

      But this...

      This was harder. Much harder.

      So hard that he’d put it off.

      So hard that he wasn’t sure he could actually do it.

      But his father’s voice prodded him.

      Don’t be a wuss, Simon. All that counts in this world is a man’s actions. Do the right thing and it doesn’t matter what you feel. You, the man, what you do—that’s what counts. That’s what’s real.

      As usual, playing back his father’s words spurred him into action. This time, he didn’t stop until he stood by the grave site. He studied it with an odd combination of regret and relief.

      It was in a good spot, in the shadow of a willow tree, covered with the thick green lawn that sprawled across the cemetery grounds. The place emanated peace. He could almost feel Lana standing beside him, her hand on his shoulder, a soft smile on her face as she thanked him for coming.

      The gravestone suited her. It was polished. An elegant marbleized cream. The epitaph, however, made him flinch. Underneath her birth and death dates, it read:

       Lana Hudson

      Beloved Daughter

      Taken by a Soul in Pain but

      One Better for Having Met Her

      

      

      He wanted to wipe out any mention of the “soul” that had taken Lana from them. It seemed obscene that a tribute to Lana’s life would include any mention of the man who’d killed her. But the epitaph hadn’t been his call. As a man Lana had briefly dated, Simon had no right to override her parents’ wishes. That was especially true given he couldn’t dispute the epitaph’s overall message—that Lana had blessed every life she’d touched, no matter how dark that life had been.

      “Hi, Lana. Sorry it’s taken me so long to visit. Things have been busy at work and...” He cringed, imagining how Lana would have called him out for his lameness if she’d still been alive. “Yeah. Well, you know why I haven’t come by. I was pissed as hell at you. I—I still am. But I loved you, babe. And I miss you. I couldn’t let another day go by without telling you that.”

      A faint breeze encircled him and he closed his eyes, imagining her arms holding him close. They’d fought before she’d been killed. Fought because she’d taken risks to help a criminal and Simon hadn’t approved. Hadn’t understood. He still didn’t.

      But that didn’t matter. Not anymore.

      Lana was gone. She’d taken part of Simon’s heart with her. Without it, there was no joy in life. No hope for it.

      Still, he’d do what he had to. He’d do his job.

      Whether he did it from a desk or on the streets, he’d do his part to make sure that men like the one who killed Lana got what they deserved. A fast-track ticket to hell.

      The breeze that had wound around him suddenly stopped, and he heard its absence as a sigh of disappointment. He imagined Lana’s voice chiding him. Urging him to be compassionate. To understand that not all killers were evil. That bad things sometimes happened due to pain, not hate.

      As he always did, Simon tried to hear the truth behind her words. But he couldn’t. Like the soul immortalized in her epitaph, he was better for having met Lana. Yet even she hadn’t been able to work miracles.

      Crouching, he placed the flowers he’d brought against her tombstone.

      And as he walked away, he was bleakly aware that he hadn’t felt that gentle breeze again.

      Two days later, Simon sat on a wooden bench in the foyer of the Welcome Home homeless shelter in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district, waiting for the director, Elaina Scott, to come out of a meeting. To pass the time, he opened the file he held, reviewing what he knew about the victim, a previous resident of the shelter.

      It wasn’t much.

      Three days ago, Louis Cann had been stabbed to death in Golden Gate Park. Normally, the homicide would have been handled by the San Francisco Police Department. In fact, SFPD had already conducted most of the preliminary investigation. Yesterday, however, things had changed. And that was putting it mildly, Simon thought with a mental snort. Now, a prostitute named Rita Taylor claimed she’d seen Cann’s killer walking away from the crime scene—wearing a patrol cop’s uniform.

      Talk about a conflict of interest.

      Which was why SIG had been assigned the case. SIG was the state equivalent of the FBI, with jurisdiction over every law enforcement agency in California. The team of five special agents assisted with some of the most complex investigations, but one of their primary duties was to handle cases that other agencies couldn’t due to some kind of conflict.

      Unfortunately, even with the preliminary work conducted by SFPD, the meager contents of the file Simon held were just that. In addition to Rita Taylor’s statement, he knew the victim’s