by Ciara Shayee
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Laker did so in his head.
Because Grace had been patching her up for years.
With his brows furrowed, he asked, “Will you show me?”
When Indie turned to face Laker, it was with a wince. Her eyes were tumultuous, her expression etched with fear. It was so easy to see the battle waging in her stormy eyes, and Laker immediately wished he could take back the words.
“I’m sorry, forget I said th—”
Before Laker could finish his apology, Indie took a tentative step towards him. Wordlessly, her gaze pleaded with him not to reach out, though deep down she knew he would. He’d always been tactile.
Indie moved to stand beside him, and it was then that she realised she hadn’t put the plaster on his cut. She quickly picked up the blue band-aid she’d removed from the first-aid kit, sticking it to the side of his finger. He smiled in thanks, then watched in confusion as she bit back her fear to crouch in front of him, tugging up the too-long left leg of Laker’s borrowed trousers.
Marring her skin was the tell-tale, faint white line of a scar. Laker couldn’t help himself; he dropped to the tiles in front of her. His hands moved swiftly towards the mark just as Indie expected they would. Soft, slightly calloused fingertips swept over the three-inch-long line, tracing the jagged shape feather-lightly.
“How? When?”
“I was ten. He threw a vase.” At his horrified expression, she hurried to elaborate, “It smashed on the wall. A shard caught my leg.”
Having hung around and worked on construction sites since being a young boy, Laker had seen many injuries like this one, though the stitching was always far cleaner, the lines less crude.
“Must have been a shitty doctor that stitched it up,” he muttered through clenched teeth, disgusted she’d had to suffer through something like this when she was still just a baby.
That disgust was increased tenfold by the wry statement that fell from Indie’s pursed lips. “I’ll tell Grace you said that.”
It took a few moments for her words to sink in. When they did, Laker’s heart all-but shoved itself from his chest, his large hands desperately gripping Indie’s upper-arms.
“That’s a sick joke, Indie. Cazzo.” He spat the curse in Italian before realisation kicked him in the gut. Indie trembled in his grasp, her eyes wide as she gazed at him with an eerie numbness that made Laker sick to his stomach.
“It’s not…I wouldn’t joke…not about this, Laker.”
Laker felt like a complete and utter tool as he fought nausea at the thought of ten-year-old Grace having to stitch up Indie’s leg. It was a heartbreaking image, one he wished he could get out of his head. Seeing the honesty in her eyes was more than Laker could bear, so he pulled Indie gently towards his chest and sighed heavily when she settled, somewhat hesitantly, against him; her bump a firm, grounding presence between them.
Their breathing evened out, their hearts beating in time with each other in a thumping rhythm that echoed in Laker’s ears. The steady thrum of his pulse resonated through Indie’s body as she leaned her cheek against his neck, inhaling the sandalwood, freshly cut grass scent she was beginning to recognise as solely him. Wrapping her arms loosely around Laker’s torso, Indie shivered with pleasure at the heat seeping from his body into her bones, warming her from the inside-out.
They sprung apart with twin gasps, both looking down at the bump jutting from Indie’s midsection before meeting each other’s wide eyes.
“Did you feel that?” they asked in sync, laughing shakily when they both nodded in response.
“Oh my God…” Indie breathed, hands flying to rest to one side of her belly. She quickly tugged the material up, revealing her bump. A few seconds later, she visibly jumped, a squeal stealing its way from between her lips. “Here, feel this!” She snatched Laker’s hand from mid-air, pressing it between both of hers at a spot on the right of her bump. Laker’s heart raced as he waited.
“He’s kicking?” he asked whisper-softly.
Indie nodded quickly, excitement lighting her face with an infectious smile. Laker couldn’t help but grin at the baby poking their hands from within, even as he fought the tell-tale sting of threatening tears.
“Yeah. I didn’t feel this ‘til right at the end of my pregnancy with Marley.”
“Well, you’re, what? Seven months now?”
“Yeah. Oh! He’s kicking again.”
The pair grinned at each other in silence, not daring to move their hands until the baby within Indie’s belly ceased his or her movements, settling down once more.
When Reagan joined them a few minutes later, it was blatantly obvious something had happened. The wide smiles on their faces were too bold to ignore. Of course, Reagan was ecstatic. Delighted in fact, that she’d been able to feel the baby kicking for the first time. But he was also a touch jealous of Laker, so he resolved to stick closer than ever to Indie in the hopes he’d get the chance to feel his unborn grandchild move, too.
~ oOo ~
Over breakfast, Reagan reminded everyone that Riley would be over soon with a forensic artist. Riley and his team were having no luck finding Garrett Smith or his accomplice, the man who’d help kidnap the girls, and he’d explained that they would need Indie and Grace’s help. That was where the artist came in. The hope was that this man, whoever he was, would have some idea of Garrett Smith’s whereabouts. Or at least he may be able to shed some light on where he may have gone. The authorities were working on the assumption that if he was trusted enough to help take the girls twelve years ago, he might still be trusted enough to be helping Garrett now.
Daunted by the thought of having to describe the accomplice for the second time in a month, Indie and Grace ate sparsely and quietly, clearing the plates away in the same manner. Only Carl-Roman’s and Marley’s antics brought even the smallest of smiles to their faces. Their fathers, brother, and friends were all struggling with their sudden silence. They’d been getting used to them participating in conversation, so seeing the girls regress was a jolt back to reality.
They were home, but they weren’t quite whole. Not yet.
Riley arrived at quarter past eleven with the artist in tow. Peter let the two men inside, leading them to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. After deciding not to call Ines just yet, Peter, Reagan, Riley, and the artist joined Indie, Grace, Archie, Laker, and the children in the living room.
“Good morning, Riley!” Carl-Roman cried, grinning at the agent as soon as he spotted him. The train set on the coffee table was forgotten as the little boy jumped up, running to offer Riley a fist-bump. Riley couldn’t help the smile that stole over his face as he returned it willingly, even making the prerequisite exploding boulder sounds as the boy’s fist crashed into his before playfully spinning off. “Are you here to see me?”
The room was filled with amused titters, only Indie and Grace managing to remain blank-faced.
“Not quite, buddy,” Riley admitted, gesturing at the balding, moustached man at his side. “I’ve brought a friend to meet your aunties. This is Mr. Bryant, and he’s going to draw some pictures with them. Is that okay?”
Carl-Roman’s eyes—Indie’s eyes—narrowed as he appraised the man, stopping at the briefcase in his hand. “S’that got colours in it?”
Mr. Bryant’s moustache twitched. “Sure does, kiddo.”
Torn between wanting to help the girls feel more at ease, and wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, Reagan looked to Peter for help. His brows furrowed, mind ticking over ways to distract Carl-Roman.
Mr. Bryant came to the rescue. All eyes were on him as he pulled a pair of children’s colouring books from his briefcase, moving with Carl-Roman to the window-seat, where he placed the book, a pack of colouring pencils, and then explained that there was a competition for the best picture in the book. Eager to win the sweets Mr. Bryant promised, the boy sat and quickly set to work colouring a cartoon farm. When Mr. Bryant turned back to the others i
n the room, he shrugged wryly. “I’ve seen a lot of children get bored and need distracting.”
Praised for his initiative, he sat himself on the sofa opposite Indie and Grace. Riley joined him.
“Indie, Grace, this is Kim Bryant. He’s a forensic artist from my division, back in the States.”
Grace mustered a tiny smile, her eyes flashing as she alternated her gaze between Peter and Kim. “It’s…it’s great to m-meet you.”
Kim’s answering smile was sad as he returned the sentiment, including Indie even though, as yet, she’d only stared at him pensively. “Now, I know neither of you are children, so I won’t treat you as such. We’ll try this on paper first, if you’re comfortable that way, and if need be, we’ll use my computer. Is that all right with both of you?”
Both girls nodded, their nerves increasing tenfold. Reagan and Peter stood to one side of the room, tense and unhappy with the entire situation, while Archie joined Carl-Roman. Laker sat in an armchair adjacent to the sofas, Marley and Mr. Bunny in his lap. Blue-greens and baby-blues watched as Kim pulled paper and pencils from his case, setting the black leather bag on the floor beneath the table before sitting himself on the edge of the cushions, a small, sad smile playing beneath his moustache.
“Okay, do you think you could take a look at these sheets and tell me if any of them seem familiar, please?”
Grace slid forward on the sofa, one hand still clasping Indie’s as she glanced at the sheaf of paper.
~ oOo ~
An hour passed, but the group was getting nowhere. Grace struggled to keep herself together, attempting to remember a face from over a decade ago while also trying to keep Indie from descending into a panic attack. Thankfully, patience was something Kim had in spades.
“What about this one?” He gently coaxed Grace to look at the sheet of noses once more, the frustration clear on her face when she met his eyes.
“Nothing. I don’t recognise them at all—”
“That one. Third from the left in the third row.”
All eyes shot to Indie. Since Kim arrived, she hadn’t spoken a word, sitting stoic and blank-faced beside an increasingly worked up Grace. Now, however, her lips were pursed grimly, eyes locked on the paper as her free hand clenched into a fist on top of her folded legs. Sensing that this may be his chance to get her cooperation, and relying on his thirty years of working for the FBI, Kim took a chance nobody expected.
“Will you show me?”
Indie watched him slide a blank sheet of paper across the table, a pencil rolling after it. Her eyes flicked from the table top to Kim’s face, questioning and wary, but not mistrustful. A few seconds passed before she sighed, long and low, edging her way off the sofa to sit cross-legged on the carpet in a mirror image of Kim’s position. To everyone’s surprise, she gingerly reached for the pencil. Clasping it in an awkward hold reminiscent of a toddler’s, she looked around at the supportive faces peering back at her.
With her brows almost joined in concentration, the blonde gripped the pencil and lowered it shakily to the paper, her mind conjuring the face of the other man responsible for ruining her life.
For ruining Grace’s life, and the lives of their families.
It had been twelve years, but Indie was still able to recall the man. His unclean smell and narrow face would be forever ingrained in her memory. After all, she’d faced him many times in her nightmares.
A thin face with lank, greasy black hair clinging to his head. He had narrowed eyes—mean eyes. Her hand began to fly across the page with startling speed and accuracy. Details, which most eyes would have missed, were captured on the page as lines appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Grimacing, Indie recalled the way one of his eyebrows had a nick in the centre. A scar.
Without a word, Kim tossed her a small white eraser, watching with raised eyebrows as the man came to life at Indie’s hand.
The silence was loud when the scratching of the pencil on paper ceased.
Blue-green eyes bolted open. She’d been drawing with her eyes closed, trying to remember every detail.
As soon as they landed on the face in front of her, Indie’s eyes overflowed with tears. Riley knew without asking; this was him.
The Accomplice, as he would be known until they figured out his identity.
Kim told Riley, with a wordless look over his shoulder, to stay back. He returned his gaze to a teary-eyed Indie, glancing down at the drawing. The details were compelling. In his fifteen years working as a forensic artist, Kim had never seen such talent from someone with no formal training or years to hone their craft. As his eyes moved over the picture, he realised a glaringly obvious feature was missing.
“Indie, is there a reason you haven’t drawn his eyes?”
Indie shuddered. “I c-can’t…”
Grace sat forward and wrapped a trembling arm around her sister, soothing her with a gentle reassurance that they were home, safe, and surrounded by people who’d protect them.
“It’s okay, Indie,” Riley interjected. He stepped forward, placing a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “She’s done. We can fill in the rest.”
Unknowingly, in letting her off the hook, Riley did the exact opposite. Hearing him say she was done spurned Indie on. She knew she wasn’t. The drawing wasn’t done. Something about leaving the sketch unfinished left an awful taste in her mouth. Glancing up at Reagan, she saw tears in the eyes he’d passed down to her. His pain was clear as day, as was the lingering surprise that his daughter obviously had an incredible latent talent. She’d been good at art at school but hadn’t had the opportunity to work on it in the years since her abduction. And yet, despite this enormous, twelve-year gap between opportunities to draw, Indie had retained her talent.
In the knowing, almost proud, look Kim gave her, Indie was suddenly sure he’d expected her reaction to his request.
Will you show me?
With a bolt of clarity, she remembered Laker’s words to her, earlier that morning. He’d asked to see a scar; she’d shown him. She’d trusted him not to judge her, so why should this task be any different? It was just a different scar, after all.
“I…I’ll try.”
Kim smiled in encouragement, his moustache twitching. If it weren’t for the way her stomach was tying itself in knots, Indie might have smiled at the sight of his thick, walrus-shaped moustache dancing with the movement of his smile.
As her hand shook, Indie’s eyes instinctively slid shut as she added the final touches to her drawing.
From her side, Grace shivered as the thin, shrewd eyes took up residence on either side of the nose Indie had pointed out, then recreated perfectly. Across the table, Kim fought a shudder of his own, the sinister tilt of the man’s lips combined with the evil expression Indie captured in his eyes creating a frighteningly striking villain.
The room fell still and silent once more in time with the muted tap of the pencil hitting the table. Indie shifted herself up onto the sofa and attempted to bury herself in the cushions while Grace wrapped her in her arms. In the meantime, Kim turned the drawing so that he, and Riley, could see it in its entirety.
“Are we done now?” Peter asked from across the room.
Riley met his eyes and nodded. “Yes. I think we are. Thank you for your help, girls. We’ll keep you updated, I promise.”
Neither Indie and Grace separated their heads to acknowledge him, not that he expected them to. Their eyes were closed tight, lips moving in almost silent whispers to reassure one another they were safe.
chapter twenty-three
In the dead of night, a lone silhouette sat solemnly on the patio. Smoke drifted upward toward the inky sky, spiralling through the air in messy swirls. The non-existent breeze left the young man feeling too warm and too sticky in the humid garden, his ribbed black vest clinging unashamedly to his skin. His ears didn’t detect the arrival of another until she was standing beside him.
“Laker?”
Soft green eyes met light azure, his lips tu
rning up into a lopsided, dimpled grin. “Pie. Can’t sleep?”
“Too hot.” Indie struggled to crouch—her bump growing larger by the hour, it seemed—but eventually settled herself on the patio, her back against the wall beside Laker. He hurried to stub out his cigarette. Their legs were stretched out next to each other. A snort bubbled up from his throat when he glanced down to see that her bare toes only just reached his calves.
“Cristo, tu sei piú breve di quello che pensavo.”
Indie’s eyes left the grass, lit only by the moonlight, to find Laker’s profile. When his eyes met hers, he realised his mistake, recognising the confusion within their depths. “Sorry,” he chuckled. “Sometimes I forget that not everyone speaks Italian. I said, ‘Christ, you’re shorter than I thought,’ Pie.”
In the light of the moon, Indie’s lips drifted up into a soft, small smile, her hands resting on her bump. Their height difference of almost a foot was something she’d noticed many times, as well as his cheerful personality and the obvious muscles that screamed his strength. In the past few weeks, their bond had steadily grown stronger, and those things didn’t scare her anymore.
Loose strings from their childhood had strengthened into the toughest of ropes; steel bindings making them more unbreakable than ever. No-one could have anticipated the way she’d attach herself so inextricably to her older brother’s friend—a boy she’d once shared a friendship with herself.
“It’s not my fault you’re freakishly tall,” she teased, liking the way it felt on her tongue and in her heart. She’d forgotten how to tease. Or how it felt to tease, anyway.
Laker grinned, his smile lopsided and bookended by twin dimples that were only just visible through his beard. “I’m actually only a little taller than average. You, on the other hand,” he reached out a hand, placing it on top of her head so most of her crown was covered by his large palm and splayed fingers. Instead of feeling restricted, Indie felt emboldened by his playful behaviour, as well as never-endingly grateful that he didn’t handle her with the same kid-gloves everybody else wore in her presence. “You could almost pass for one of the seven dwarves.”