She lifted a brow. “He thinks meeting with you is optional?”
“Apparently.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Not so fast. You’re staying here with David, if that’s all right with him.”
“Sure,” the man said. “The company will be nice.”
“No offense to David,” Emily said, “but I’d really like to go with you.” She crossed her arms and lifted her jaw.
Brady sighed. “Look, we were headed for the safe house once we’re done here. I think it’s best to keep to that. Linc and Derek are already on the way here and can take you out there. I trust them to get you there safe. I’ll meet up with you there after I talk to Raimes and fill you in on every detail, I promise.”
She bit her lip and looked up at him through her lashes. She supposed he was right. If she insisted, she could be putting him and everyone in the building in danger. “Fine. You promise?”
“Yes. If you’ll promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“That you’ll wear the gear the whole time you’re riding out to the safe house. I don’t want to leave you open to a sniper.”
She nodded. “Right. No, I don’t want to be picked off by a sniper.”
“Good, I’m glad we’re in agreement on that.”
Definitely. She didn’t like the idea of being left out of the interrogation process, but this was what Brady did and she’d have to trust him enough to let him do it.
Nicholas Raimes’s office dominated the fourth floor of a recently renovated high-rise in the heart of downtown Columbia. Fortunately, the building was only about three blocks from the police station and Brady parked out front in the circular drive. He placed the card in the window that identified him as a police officer.
With an eye on the surrounding buildings, he hurried through the double glass doors and breathed a sigh of relief when no bullets hurled his way. Although, he couldn’t think why they would. Emily wasn’t with him. Still . . . he’d admit to some paranoia—and wasn’t going to apologize for it.
The elevator carried him upward, and when the doors opened, Brady found himself in the plush lobby of Raimes and Associates. He approached the receptionist, flashed his badge, and gave the twentysomething young man his name.
“Just one second, Detective. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
Brady wondered if the man would keep him waiting, but before he had a chance to choose a seat, the inner door opened and Nicholas Raimes stepped through. “Hello, Detective St. John?”
“Yes.” They shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“You too. Come right this way and we’ll talk in my office. I managed to push my next meeting a bit so we wouldn’t be too rushed.”
“Thanks.” Huh. The man wasn’t really what he expected. Mid to late forties, trim and tall with linebacker shoulders and a tanned face. Green eyes sparkled with life and he had an easygoing smile that probably resonated well with his clients.
Brady settled himself in one of the comfortable leather seats that had been arranged to face a matching couch. A coffee table and end tables completed the sitting area.
“Could I get you some coffee? Water? Soda?”
“I’ll take a water,” Brady said.
“Absolutely.”
Raimes rounded his desk to put in the order using his phone’s intercom system. The same young man who’d greeted him in the lobby brought the chilled water bottles and napkins along with a bowl of fresh fruit and toothpicks. Brady thanked him and snagged a strawberry.
“Now,” Raimes said, seating himself on the couch. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Raimes,” Brady said, “are you aware that your office building on Charter Street was being used by known felons?”
The man sighed. “No. I mean, of course, I got the call from the police telling me what had happened, but that building . . .” He shook his head. “I bought it a few years ago when I thought the area was going to make a comeback. Unfortunately, it didn’t. I was losing money on the place, sank some cash into it, and rented it out.”
“Who’s the tenant?”
He stood and raked a hand down the side of his perfectly combed hair. “A man by the name of Hudson. Grant Hudson. I pulled his file last night.” He opened it. “We rented the building to him last year. He requested to do some renovations, and I told him as long as he would return it to the original layout when he left, that was fine.”
“Did you ever inspect it?”
“No. He paid his rent on time on the first or second of each month and I’ve never had an issue with him.”
“Sounds like a dream tenant.”
“You could say that. He called us when the air-conditioning went out shortly after they moved in, and I sent a crew out to fix it. Since then, it’s been quiet.”
“Do you have a picture of this guy?”
Raimes shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve never met him.”
“Do you mind if I look him up real quick?”
“Help yourself.” Raimes grabbed several toothpicks and downed half a dozen pieces of fruit while Brady opened the software on his phone that would allow him access to the department’s driver’s license database. “What’s the home address?”
“47 Parkside Drive,” Raimes read in between bites of fruit.
Brady found him. And recognized him. It was Emily’s Snake Man.
Brady stood and handed Raimes a card. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, will you give me a call?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks again. I appreciate the information.”
“Anytime.”
Brady shook the man’s hand and headed for the door even as he wondered how things were going with Linc and Derek escorting Emily to the safe house.
17
Emily hadn’t been expecting the safe house to be so nice. The two-story traditional home boasted a large screened-in porch attached to a wooden deck off the back. The yard sloped down to the covered dock that held a pontoon boat.
After dropping her bag and laptop on the bed in her room, she walked out onto the porch and settled in the swing. She had every intention of getting on the laptop soon, but for now, she needed to breathe—and probably pray—before digging into the mire of a human trafficker’s financial dirt. I don’t understand, God. Why did you take her? She swallowed and closed her eyes. Help me to not become bitter. I don’t want to hate. But I do right now . . . very much. I need you to hold on to me—
“How are you holding up?” Brady asked.
She looked up from her spot on the porch swing. Brady stood in the doorway leading into the den, leaning against the doorjamb.
“I’m all right,” she said.
“Liar.”
“I know.” She drew in a deep breath and looked out over the lake. “You love the water, don’t you?”
“I do. I try to spend as much time on—or in—it as I can. It’s good for my mental state.”
“I can see why. It’s so peaceful here, so calm. And yet, I can’t seem to settle my nerves. It’s just hard to believe someone killed Heather—and wants to kill me.”
He settled into the swing beside her and wrapped an arm around her. “I’m not going to let them get to you. I’ve called in a few favors. There are only a select few who know we’re using this place. I’ve asked for round-the-clock protection. There are security cameras all over the place that are being monitored 24/7.”
“I know you’ll do your best to protect me, but eventually, I’m going to have to stick my head up. I can’t hide forever and your two-week vacation will end and you’ll have to go back to work.” Without thinking about it, she let her head rest on his shoulder. When she realized what she’d done, she froze. And forced her muscles to relax. “You smell good.” Woodsy with a hint of soap and a little smoky from the fire inside. And uniquely him.
His chuckle rumbled in her ear. “Thank you.” A slight pause. “And you are
my work,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got so much vacation time built up, I could take six weeks without hardly putting a dent in it.” He paused again. “Emily?”
“Hmm?” She could easily fall asleep right here.
“Will you tell me about your scars?”
Peace fled. For a moment she didn’t say anything as she debated the wisdom of opening that can of worms. The more she let him in, the more it was going to hurt when she had to say goodbye. Because once he knew about everything, he wouldn’t ever look at her in the same way. And she wouldn’t be able to bear the pity in his eyes. She hated pity. Sympathy, anger for what happened to her, outrage that her nemesis was never punished were all fine. But she couldn’t stand pity.
“Em?”
“I don’t know if I can.”
He fell silent for a moment. “I wish you would trust me, but it’s okay if you’re not there yet.”
Strangely enough, she found herself wishing she would trust him too. Maybe she should just tell him. Telling him now would be like ripping the bandage off fast. It would hurt, but would hurt less than if she continued to allow herself to care about him. Care what he thought about her. “There was an incident in high school that resulted in me getting pregnant.”
His swiftly indrawn breath said she might have been a little too blunt. “Rape?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
She drew away from his warmth, immediately missing it, but she couldn’t touch him and talk about it at the same time. “No. It was . . . consensual.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“It was, but it took him some time to wear me down to agree to it. Needless to say, he finally won the bet.”
“Bet?” His soft voice had a lethal edge to it.
She couldn’t look at him. “I’ll tell you, but it’s such a cliché story, you’ll wonder if I stole it from the plot of some stupid movie.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Tears gathered and she blinked them back. “I tell this story all the time to people who’ve been through lousy stuff,” she whispered. “I don’t know why it’s so hard to tell you.”
He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. She studied him, seeing the concern there. The anger at what had happened to her.
“Is it real? Do you really care?”
He blinked and she realized she’d said the words out loud.
“It’s real,” he said softly. “I care about you, Emily.”
“Why? You don’t even know me.”
“Because . . . I just do. And I know enough.”
“Is it a savior complex? I mean, you’ve saved my life a few times. Not to offend you, but could it be you just feel responsible in your cop-ly, justice-for-all kind of thing?”
His eyes darkened, but he didn’t immediately deny the possibility. Then he looked away. “I’m not offended. The truth is, I thought about that, and I’ll admit, you’re different than the kind of woman I tend to be interested in.”
Wait a minute. Interested in how, exactly? She bit down on those words and instead asked, “Different how? Because I’m not a size 2 and blonde?”
He laughed, but the sound lacked humor. “Partly. I think they’re mostly size 6s, though. And I only know that because I have three sisters.”
“Yeah, I’m not even close to that one either.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. It’s always mattered.” She glanced down at her hands, wondering if she could really trust him with her deepest hurt.
A hand covered hers. “I’m not talking physical differences. I’m talking about what’s inside you. Your heart is different. There’s a depth to you that I’ve . . . avoided with other women.”
“Why?”
He cleared his throat. “Because if I don’t get too emotionally involved, I won’t get hurt . . .”
“I’m familiar with that one,” she murmured.
“. . . again.”
Oh. “Who hurt you?”
“Her name was Krystal. Well, technically, is Krystal. She’s not dead. She was someone I thought I could help and wound up wrong. Very, very wrong.”
“What happened to her?”
“She’s in prison.”
“For what?”
“Murder.”
“Whoa.” She stared up at him.
“I know. Tell me about you, please.”
He wasn’t going to let it go. Tension threaded her shoulders even tighter. “Why?” she cried. “Why do you want to hear about my shame?” She stood. His grip tightened, but not so tight she couldn’t pull away.
A heavy sigh left him. “It’s not that I want to know about your shame. It’s . . .”
“What?”
“Back at the cabin you asked me why I’m mad at God.”
She stilled. “Yes.”
“And it’s because I feel like he failed me. And because I actually believe he’s who he says he is, in my mind that means failure is not an option for him. It’s obvious you suffered some trauma—even after listening to Heather’s 911 call—and yet, you’ve managed to keep your faith. I want to know how you did that.”
“Oh.” She took her seat again and he settled her back against him. How did she explain it? “First, let me address pre–Heather’s call,” she said. “I never had faith until after the . . .” She paused. “Okay, trauma is a good word. Until after that.”
“I see.”
“My family was really dysfunctional. Abusive father, mother with no backbone who waffled between resenting my very existence and smothering me with rules because she ‘loved’ me.” She shrugged. “You can probably fill in the blanks. I’m an only child. I didn’t even have a sibling to love.”
“Wait, what about Sophia?”
She hesitated. “I left shortly after she came along.” With a shaky hand, she rubbed her eyes and pictured herself back at the center where she volunteered weekly and pulled the words from her soul. “I wasn’t exactly the popular girl in school. I was overweight—more so than I am now—and I had extreme self-confidence issues. However, my senior year, I managed to lose a good bit of weight and I was actually starting to feel good about myself. I wasn’t a size 2 or even a size 6, but I was eating better and exercising. Jeremy Hightower was one of the guys everyone liked—you know the type, the star athlete who had the eye of the college recruiters, pretty girls stumbling over themselves for his attention. He started paying attention to me, but I brushed him off, certain it was some kind of joke. I kept waiting for the other shoe to fall. And it never did. After two months, he was still being nice, still walking with me in the halls, still coming to my house to study, and still defending me to his friends when they made fun of me.” She swallowed. “Slowly, he gained my trust, and when he kissed me, I was lost. That teenager who felt ugly and unloved was being kissed by the guy every girl wanted. It wasn’t long after that, that I gave him what he asked for.”
“Sex?”
“Hmm.” She nodded. “One time in his parents’ barn. Literally, a roll in the hay.” She swallowed again, the remembered shame washing over her. “And when it was all said and done, he stood up, kicked me in the ribs, and ranted at the time and energy I’d made him waste getting to that point.” She watched him. Looking for signs of disgust or pity.
All she saw was an instant blazing rage that looked ready to be unleashed. On her behalf. The sight brought tears. Once again, she forced them back and looked away. “He made sure that I understood just how disgusted he was every time he had to hold my hand or be in my presence.” Tears dripped from her chin and a gentle hand swiped them away. She barely noticed. “His best friend stepped out from behind one of the stalls and congratulated him on his win.” At his sharply indrawn breath, she shuddered. “Every time I think about it, I remember how gullible and stupid I was.” She grimaced. “It’s not exactly a great feeling. I . . . uh . . . pretty much hated myself at that point. And that’s when I started eating everything in sight—and cutting.” She pushed her sle
eves up and he ran a finger over the white scars crisscrossing one another. His touch eased something inside of her and the words came easier. “After a few years of therapy, we figured out that I fell in love with food at a young age because food never betrayed me, it made me feel happy and it was always there for me. In the end, it was one of the biggest betrayals of all. It made me fat and vulnerable to the cruelty of others. Although, now I realize I can’t blame food, I can only blame my choices.”
“I’m so, so sorry, Emily. I can’t imagine the strength it took to survive that.”
When she finally looked back at him, his red-rimmed eyes stilled her. Was he crying? For her? He looked away before she could decide for sure.
“I wasn’t strong. I thought about suicide every day, but in the end decided that was too easy.”
“Too easy?”
She nodded. “I deserved to suffer for being such an idiot. Thankfully, that was my senior year and I only had to walk those halls for a couple more months before graduation. Don’t get me wrong. Those two months were awful. I thought about quitting, but something inside me wouldn’t let him take that from me too. He’d taken everything, including what little self-respect I had. I was going to get my diploma no matter what. And I did.”
For a moment he was silent. Then he wrapped her in a hug. “He was a psychopath.”
“Maybe.” She leaned into his embrace, relishing the comfort, stunned he hadn’t run from her in disgust.
“I think you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not brave,” she said. “I’m just too stubborn to quit.”
“So, what turned you around? It’s obvious you’re a completely different person than the traumatized teenager you once were.” He tilted her chin, and wonder of wonders, there was no pity in his gaze. Her throat spasmed. Could she dare believe it was admiration?
“My aunt Lucy,” she said. “She’s an amazing woman. She’d been through some hard times herself, and when I called her in desperation to tell her what was going on, that I was pregnant, she stepped in, convinced me I could do this, and that she would be there for me.”
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