She could still hear the spray of blood spattering the leaves. The odd dull thud of a body hitting the ground as blood trickled through the underbrush toward Nissa’s frozen hand. But all that faded behind the screams that even months later, ripped through her core when she least expected it.
Nissa sobbed and rocked back on her heels as she gripped the picture frame so hard the glass cracked. She hissed, whipped her hand into her chest as pain struck. A thin trickle of blood dotted her palm and erupted around the shard of glass embedded in her skin. With shaking fingers, she pulled the fragment free.
Her head spun, sending her back until she gulped in a breath to still the room, still the world. Silence roared in her ears as she pulled herself out of the paralyzing vortex.
The doorbell rang.
She couldn’t stop the cry from escaping, could barely feel her legs as she pushed to her feet. Nissa stumbled to the front door, pressed her uninjured hand against the glass, heart pounding so hard she could barely catch her breath. Her fingers hovered over the lock. She knew what to do. She had to open it, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t be certain what or who was on the other side. Her knees folded and she slid to the floor. Tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes as she fought to get herself under control. That poor girl. That poor, dead girl…
“Nissa?”
Dante. For an instant, the darkness receded; the panic faded. But the idea of having to face him, having to explain…having to tell what she’d seen…she pinched her lips so tight they went numb.
“Nissa, come on.” He knocked. “Your kitchen light’s on and I swear I smell coffee. I brought you breakfast.”
She shook her head. More than anything, she wanted to let him in. But she had to handle this on her own. Somehow she had to accept what had happened, deal with it, and move on. She didn’t want to worry her family and couldn’t rely on anyone else to understand. She couldn’t take the chance of Lance finding out.
Nissa sat on the hardwood floor, bleeding hand clenched into a fist, arms and legs trembling as she listened to Dante leave the front porch.
She let out a shaking breath. He was leaving her alone. She closed her eyes in relief, but all she saw was the nameless face of a girl in a forest as the light faded from her beautiful brown eyes.
As if from a distance, she heard an odd clicking. Not a bone-chilling camera click, but that of a lock disengaging. The back door creaked open. Nissa scrambled back into the corner, tucked her legs into herself so tightly she folded herself in thirds.
“Nissa?” Dante’s voice echoed through the kitchen. She heard the rattle of a paper bag, the heavy drop of his work boots creeping closer and closer. “What on earth—?”
He stopped in the doorway, shock marring his handsome face as he took a step toward her.
She jerked back against the wall.
Dante froze. He scanned the hallway and up the stairs before he dropped his gaze back on her. His eyes softened, his features relaxed. He dropped into a crouch, met her eye to eye. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I-I’m fine.” She managed and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She looked down, realized she’d done so with her injured hand. The dampness on her cheek told her she’d streaked blood on her face. Panic surged anew. More blood. So much blood. “I’ll be fine,” she croaked. “It won’t last long. Panic attack. Anxiety. It’s nothing.”
“The hell this is nothing.” He crept forward, staying low, and sat back against the wall beside her. “What’s this about? You’re bleeding.” He took hold of her wrist, drew her hand to him and before she knew what was happening, he’d pulled her into his arms. “What did you do to yourself?” He closed her fingers over her palm.
“Accident,” she whispered and surrendered to full mortification by burying her face in his chest. He felt so good, so strong, sturdy. Warm. And he smelled amazing. Not in an aftershave kind of way, but like a healthy, clean male. “It’ll pass. Just…give me a minute.” Except this attack was already lasting longer than the others.
The others were what had her finally agreeing to Lance’s request to keep the kids for longer than she wanted. She’d been petrified of this happening around them. How could she possibly explain their mommy was losing her mind? That at any moment everything inside of her could collapse or worse, vanish. Aside from that twinge in the park yesterday, it had been days since she’d had any issues. And now, with a week before Caley and Wyatt came home, her worst fear was coming true. The attacks hadn’t subsided. They were getting worse.
What was she going to do? What if Lance found out? They were at a point in their relationship when he’d pounce on any weakness of hers just to draw another pint of blood from her bruised heart.
She lifted her other hand and laid it on Dante’s chest, taking comfort in the fast, steady beat of his heart. Life. He was alive. She was alive.
But that poor girl… she whimpered.
Dante didn’t say a word. He tightened his hold, reached down and pulled her legs across him and held her on his lap as the tremors subsided. His hand stroked her hair as he pressed his lips against her hairline.
She lost track of time. How could she not being in the circle of this man’s arms? It was as if his touch drew the panic out of her and settled the storm raging inside of her. She didn’t want this. Not again. Lance had destroyed any faith she had in love, in trust. She’d never been able to rely on him and now the idea of relying on anyone, knowing they’d eventually betray her, knowing they’d hurt her petrified her almost as much as the idea of returning to South America. She didn’t want to believe Dante was different, didn’t want to take the chance and yet she wasn’t entirely sure she could have pulled herself out in one piece if he hadn’t broken in through her back door.
She frowned, logic rising to the forefront of her mind. “How did you know where I live?” She didn’t move. “How did you get in here?”
“I’m a man of many talents.” He kissed her forehead, pressed his hand against her cheek and kept her face against his shoulder. “You ready to tell me what this is all about?”
She wanted to answer, but the words weren’t there.
“Whatever trauma you suffered—”
“Is that what you call it?”
“You’re cowering on the floor of your home, bleeding and shaking. And not because anyone invaded your house.” He set her far enough away from him so he could look into her eyes. “That’s trauma. Now tell me what happened.” He held her face in his hands, even when she tried to pull away. “Nothing is going to change until you get this out, Nissa. Now tell me. Trust me. It will help. I promise.”
Tears burned the back of her throat, blurred her vision, but as she blinked and released those tears, for the first time since she got back from South America, the terror inside of her eased. Could she trust him? A man she’d known less than a day. A man she knew nothing about? A man she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about from the moment she’d met him.
“Nissa.” The way he said her name, part prayer, part plea, broke through the wall she’d built around herself. “Tell me what happened.”
“A murder,” she croaked before the tears broke free of the dam. “I witnessed a murder.”
Chapter Four
As he waited for the water to boil for tea—Nissa had had more than enough coffee—Dante glared at his cell displaying yet another call from Jack. Hands planted on the counter, Dante clenched his jaw so hard his brain pulsed. All the years he’d worked for Jack, all the details he hadn’t wanted to know, he’d been dodging a bullet. A bullet that had somehow bypassed him and struck Nissa point blank.
Guilt intermingled with relief. Thank God he’d taken Jack up on the offer of double pay otherwise he may very well have already been back in New York by now leaving Nissa on her own. A murder. Nissa had witnessed a murder? As anxious as he was to hear the rest of the story—the entire story—he knew better than to push. If he was going to get what he needed and protect Nissa, he had to proc
eed very, very carefully. At least her kids weren’t around. The last thing he needed was that delicate complication.
He shoved his phone across the counter, choosing to ignore the incessant vibrating as he poured the hot water over the tea bag and retrieved a slice of toast from the toaster. A few minutes later he presented her with both before he joined her on the sofa.
“What’s this?” She looked down at the toast and set the mug of tea on the coffee table.
“My mother’s special recipe. Toast with peanut butter and honey.” The memories made him smile. “I had nightmares when I was a kid. Night terrors, actually. Whenever I woke up in the middle of the night, she’d take me to the kitchen and fix me toast with peanut butter and honey. It made things better. Eat.”
With a look that told him she was only humoring him, she nibbled on the corner. A few seconds later, she took a larger bite. “This is good.”
“Moms know best.” About some things at least. “You ready to talk about it?” A golden strand of her hair fell across her cheek and it was all he could do not to reach over and tuck it behind her ear. She’d let him bandage her hand, clean the blood off her face, but the instant he’d sensed resistance, he’d settled her in the living room and given her some space.
“You mean about that embarrassing scene on the floor or what I saw in South America?” She sounded tired; exhausted really. Finally, Dante had his explanation for the circles under her eyes. And the terror in them.
“One feeds into the other,” he said. “How about we start with what you saw?”
“Something I shouldn’t have.” She reached for her tea. “Something no one seems to give a damn about since I was told specifically by our excursion guides not to go to the police. They insisted I’d be safer staying out of it. You know, like murder is a spectator sport or something.”
He was well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of foreign law enforcement departments. That said, her guide had probably been right. Not reporting the crime had probably saved her life. Yet somehow word had leaked there was a witness. A witness who carried a camera. That rumor alone was enough to get her killed. He clenched his fists to the count of five before he forced himself to relax. “What were you doing there?”
“Photography excursion. A national magazine sponsors them in the hopes photographers can catch images of endangered species. I’ve been trying to get back into the industry after staying home with my kids. Necessity after divorce, you know? I was hoping to make the money I spent back by getting the picture. I was looking for a frog. This stupid little itty-bitty frog.” She lifted the second half of her toast as if in salute. “I hate frogs.”
“Not a fan myself.” He could hear his phone buzzing from the other room. Jack was not giving up, but Dante wasn’t in any frame of mind to hold a rational conversation at the moment. He wanted all the information he could get before he spoke to his boss again. “Who was killed?”
“Murdered,” Nissa whispered and swallowed hard as she set the plate aside. “A teenage girl. Someone cut her throat.” She brushed her fingers against her neck as her eyes glazed over in memory. “I’d wandered away from the group, ended up on a trail frequented by human traffickers. I heard later men go in to small towns and villages, take the children and transport them around the world for…who knows what. Girls and boys.” Tears exploded in her eyes. “Babies. Not much older than mine. I, um.” She squeezed her eyes shut and tucked her legs under her. “I was sitting in these bushes by a lake, camouflaged, waiting for the sun to set because that’s when this particular frog tends to make an appearance. That’s when the shouting started. That’s when I saw her. She was such a pretty girl with long dark hair. Glossy, wavy. She was wearing these tattered shorts and a tank top. Her arms and legs were scraped up, bruised. And her eyes…” She waved a hand in front of her own. “I remember feeling as if I was in a dream, like what I was witnessing wasn’t real. I just sat there, in the bushes, with my camera aimed right at them. I couldn’t move. And they just…killed her.”
And in that moment, Dante’s worst fears were realized. “You took pictures? You have pictures of all this?”
“I don’t know.” She’d closed her eyes as if she could block out the memory. “I haven’t been able to pick up my camera since. It felt as if it had her blood on it, you know?”
“What happened then?”
“Nothing. I just stayed there, frozen. Like a coward and watched the life fade out of her eyes. And her blood…” she choked, cleared her throat as if to cover, but she didn’t fool him. “I couldn’t move. I didn’t move, not for hours. Long after they were gone.”
“Then they didn’t see you.” Relief surged through him. Finally, some good news.
“I’m alive, aren’t I? No. They didn’t see me. Because they didn’t even bother to pick up her body. At least not then. By the time I found my way back to camp and told them what I’d seen, showed them where it had happened, she was gone. The guide was more concerned with what I was going to do, whether I was going to go to the police or, heaven forbid sue the company for something.” The edge in her voice could have cut through steel. “I couldn’t sleep and then when I did I had horrible nightmares. Their solution was to get me out of there as soon as possible, as quietly as possible. What choice did I have? I didn’t know the country, couldn’t be sure who or what was safe. So I let them ship me off while that girl…”
Dante’s respect for Nissa shot sky high when she caught the sob behind her hand and shook her head. She was trying so hard to put it behind her, but he knew how difficult witnessing horrific violence could be. It scarred you. Forever.
“I was home two days later,” she said. “A couple of weeks later escrow closed on the house, so I’ve been focused on packing and moving and not making any waves in case Lance changed his mind about letting me move the kids out of the city. Life goes on, right?”
It did indeed. Except for the lives that didn’t. “I am so sorry you had to go through that.”
“I think she’s haunting me.” Nissa rested her head on the back of the sofa. “Sometimes it’s like she’s just there, staring at me with those dead eyes of hers, asking me why I didn’t do anything to help her. She’s all alone. Even dead, she’s all alone and that feels so wrong. No one knows she’s gone except me.”
“There was nothing you could have done,” Dante said. “If you’d tried you’d be dead, too. Or worse. They’d have taken you in her place.” Fury built inside of him like a tornado. What the hell kind of company took photographers into human trafficking areas? Cutting corners, probably. Getting the most bang for their buck. “You need to talk to someone about this, Nissa.”
“I am talking to someone. I’m talking to you.” Her tired smile brushed the edges of his heart. “You don’t charge by the hour, do you?”
“I do not. But I’m not a professional. It doesn’t take a professional to see this is eating you up inside. These anxiety attacks, how often do you have them?”
“It’s been almost a week since the last one.” She looked down at her bandaged hand. “I thought I felt one coming on yesterday in the park. When I heard your camera go off.” She laughed as Dante’s stomach tightened. “So ridiculous what can trigger it. A sound I’ve loved all my life might just make me lose my mind. Now that’s irony. Or karma. I can’t decide.”
“So this is why you’ve taken a break from pictures.” And why she hadn’t unpacked her office. Or looked at her camera or the photographs someone clearly believed she’d taken that day. He’d lay even money her so-called guides had been bought off by the traffickers.
“Yesterday was the first time I picked up a camera since I got back,” Nissa said. “I think the fact it wasn’t mine is the reason I could. Is that your phone that keeps ringing?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” Dante glared back at the kitchen. “My boss. He’s ticked I’m still on vacation.”
Her brows pinched together, and she looked at him. “What do you do for a living?”
&nbs
p; “I’m a private investigator.” Close enough. “I specialize in sensitive cases.”
“Sensitive as in catching cheating spouses in the act or as in dangerous?”
“I’ve done both.” Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, he circled back. “I bet there are some mental health professionals in town who can help you work through this. Someone who specializes in PTSS.”
“You mean post-traumatic stress disorder?”
“Not a disorder. Syndrome. They redefined it as well they should have. It’s nothing to play around with.”
“I’m not playing.” She didn’t look convinced. “And I can’t see anyone.”
“The “T” stands for trauma, Nissa. You don’t want to define what you have, fine, but anxiety like what I saw a few minutes ago is only going to get worse if you don’t get help.”
“No, I mean, yeah, you’re right, but I can’t do that just yet.” Just like that, her eyes dimmed, as if she’d dropped a curtain over her face. “Not as long as Lance hasn’t signed off on the new custody agreement.”
What did her ex-husband have to do with her seeking treatment? “He’s fighting you for your kids?” He glanced at the photograph on the table behind them.
“He wanted to renegotiate once I asked to move the kids here. Not because he wants them,” Nissa said. “They’re good for his image as a lawyer with hopes for a political career. His bosses are serious family men and Lance trotting out our kids earns him bonus points at the job. Nice, huh? He knows I’ll do anything to keep that bit of information from them. No way will I ever let them find out their father only sees them as chips in a poker game.”
“Meaning he can use them as a weapon against you?”
Nissa shrugged. “I don’t matter. Not when it comes to them. He can do whatever he wants to me, I don’t care. I got what I needed from him. My kids and enough money to start over. Nothing like your dad, I bet.”
Love In Focus Page 4