by Justine Dare
"You're working on the roof," she said.
"Yes." He wasn't certain if her words were statement or question.
"Is it going to take long?"
"With just me working, a while," he said. "Sorry," he added, figuring she'd wanted to know how long they were going to have to put up with him.
"No, it's okay, I just wondered. I'm sure Regan wouldn't have told us you were okay if you weren't."
"I'm no threat to any of you," he promised. "Please don't be nervous."
"I'm not. You're a nice change in the scenery around here."
Alex blinked. Was she flirting with him? "Thanks. I think."
Mindy sighed. "God, that's what landed me here. I can't stop flirting, and my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—hates it."
"Hates it enough to hit you?"
She nodded glumly. "But really, he's not all bad. Honest, he's not. He just doesn't like me talking to other men."
"Like who?"
"Like anybody."
"Even your family?"
"Well, sometimes. But really, he can be so sweet, when he wants to be."
"I don't get it. That's like saying, 'I love him, he's just got this one little quirk, he beats the hell out of me.' No amount of sweet makes up for brutality."
She looked startled. Then, abruptly, angry. "What do you know about it?"
She abruptly turned and ran toward what he guessed was the kitchen, leaving Alex feeling rocky.
When he turned and saw Regan at the bottom of the stairs, watching him, he felt even rockier. He wondered how much she'd heard.
As Regan walked toward him, he held up his hands against the chewing out he was certain was coming. "I know, I should have kept my mouth shut, it's none of my business."
She came to a halt in front of him. "No. I'm glad you did."
"You are?"
She nodded. "It's good for them to hear that, from a totally independent source. Especially a man. They need to know there are men out there who find it as repulsive as any woman does."
"I do. I just don't understand why they stand for it."
"I know." Regan studied him for a moment. "Sometimes it irritates me when someone has no concept of what these women are going through. But then I remember I was that way once. Like all the others who say, 'Why don't they just leave?'"
And in that moment, Alex was no longer working for CourtCorp, or here only because his mother had sent him. For right now, he was just a guy trying to figure out something that had always puzzled him.
"I know most of the accepted reasons," he said. And he did. He'd read every page of the literature his mother had provided. "They think they deserve it, they're convinced it's really their fault, they think it's only temporary, that he'll change, that they have no resources of their own, I know all that. Up here," he said, tapping his temple. "But my gut still doesn't get it."
"Neither does mine."
It was the perfect plan, she thought. He would be out of her life, and she and William would be free. It was so much simpler, really. She knew herself well enough to know she would never have the nerve to leave. She simply couldn't face life knowing he'd be after her, chasing her, knowing he'd kill her if he caught her.
Besides, if she did leave, she would lose her son. She hadn't known that when she'd married him.
She'd signed that prenuptial agreement he'd put in front of her without a protest, after his declaration that it was the only way he could be sure she loved him and not his money. Innocent, naive child that she'd been then, she'd never realized that in doing so she'd signed away her own child's future. She'd be worse than penniless if she left. Her loving husband had not only made sure she would leave empty-handed, he'd made sure she had no skills or the confidence to seek any kind of employment.
But if she stayed, he would kill her. She no longer had any doubt of that. One day he would go too far and it would be over. She didn't care so much for herself, but she'd been reading, magazines from the doctor's office mostly, and she knew the truth now. Knew her son would be raised to be just like him, thinking women deserved no better than this. Oddly, while she cared little about herself anymore, she didn't want that for her son. Didn't want some terrified woman to someday hate him the way she hated his father.
"Well?"
Snapped back to the present by the growled inquiry, she focused on the man opposite her. She'd risked everything to sneak out and meet this dark, frightening man here in this seedy cafe. It had taken her days to organize, and she'd nearly changed her mind countless times.
But the last time her husband had beaten her, he'd avoided her face. And somehow that knowledge, that he'd purposely avoided damaging any part of her that might show at his company banquet next week, that he was that much in control when he battered her, had been the spark she needed to keep the newborn flame of her anger burning.
"Do it. As we agreed. And as soon as possible."
"You're sure? You really want him dead?"
She looked into the cool, assessing eyes of the man she had found on the Internet. She wondered for a moment if he was trying to get her to say it because this was a setup, if maybe he was an undercover cop. But then she realized it didn't matter. Not really. If he was a cop, he'd arrest her, and she'd go to jail. And going to jail would be a blessed relief. Nothing that could happen to her there could be any worse than the hell she lived in every day.
"I want him tortured for eight years, as he's tortured me, but I'll settle for dead," she said firmly.
"It'll cost you," the man warned, running a finger over his upper lip.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a small pouch. Something else fell to the table, and she grabbed it before it could roll to the floor as she told him, "What you can get for that should cover it."
He undid the drawstring and peered inside. He looked at her doubtfully. "I don't know."
"It's all real. And very high quality."
"Yeah, but I'd have to fence it. This kind of stuff, jewelry, it's tough."
"There's enough there to make it worth it," she promised, trying to hide her desperation. If he turned her down, where would she turn?
He looked at her for a moment, in a way that made her feel like she was a butterfly about to be pinned by a cruel little boy.
"Throw that in," he said, gesturing at her left hand, "and you've got a deal."
She stared down at the gaudy diamond on her ring finger. She had never liked it, but had let herself be convinced it was proof of his great love. If only she'd known then it was merely another trapping of the life he'd carefully designed for himself. The powerful job, the luxurious mansion, the expensive cars, the silk suits, the gold and diamond jewelry, and the beautiful wife, complete with ball and chain disguised as a four-carat diamond. She was no more, and considerably less than some of the rest.
But she didn't dare take it off. He'd notice. And no explanation she could come up with would satisfy him.
"You can have it," she told the killer. "But not until it's done. After that, I'll be glad to be rid of it."
He studied her a moment, as if assessing whether she could be trusted to keep that promise. She wondered what he'd seen when he nodded.
"Deal," he said succinctly. "Just remember I'll know who and where you are. You try and cheat me, and I'll hunt you down."
She looked at the crayon she held, the one she had tucked into her purse as a constant reminder. "If you get this done, you won't have to," she promised him.
"Consider him dead."
I'll dance on his grave, she promised herself.
CHAPTER 4
After arriving this morning to conduct interviews with the residents of Rachel's House, Detective Garrison insisted they be done in the comfortably furnished living room rather than across Regan's more official-seeming desk. "I don't want them to feel this is an interrogation," Lynne said. "This is tough enough on them already."
"Thank you for understanding that," Regan said. "Most people think they should
be delighted their abusers are dead."
I suppose. Personally, I can't imagine a more tangled mess of emotions, especially when you've not had time to establish yourself on your own yet."
"Exactly." Regan hesitated. "They don't know yet. The connection to here, I mean. The current residents didn't know Rosa or Marcia. I wasn't sure if you would want me to tell them. And I didn't want them in the position of worrying if they should warn the men who abused them."
"I appreciate that. And they don't need to worry, we'll handle that once we have the records."
Regan frowned. On advice of the CourtCorp lawyer, Rachel's House had asked for a legal order to turn over the records that revealed the history of the residents. "It's not that we don't want to cooperate—"
Lynne stopped her with a wave of her hand. "No, I understand. And I'd just as soon go by the book every step of the way on this anyway. You'll get your court order, Ms. Keller."
"Thank you. And Regan, please."
Lynne nodded. "All right, Regan. Once we do start calling the men concerned, it will probably come out anyway. But these talks might be easier on them if they don't know yet."
Regan studied the woman for a moment, wondering if she was hoping to find out something if the women didn't know of the connection between the victims and Rachel's House. She didn't like the idea, but she supposed it was the detective's job.
"I've been thinking," she began.
"Yes?" the woman asked when she stopped.
"About the killings, I mean. I've been thinking about this for a while, that they're safe here, at Rachel's House, but they still have to go out into the world."
"I understand. They have to get jobs so they can support themselves when they leave, they may have to go to court—"
"Exactly. That was what got me thinking, and I realized that the first murder happened right after Rosa was killed."
"I remember noticing that. And?"
"The second one happened right after Marcia's husband got out of jail for trying to run her off the road her first day at a new job, right after she went back to him."
Detective Garrison nodded. "Your point?"
"You probably aren't aware of it, but Dawn saw Art last week. And I just found out she was planning to see him again today. She's not supposed to, but it isn't easy to keep to that sometimes. Anyway, last week he hit her. She came back with his handprint still showing on her cheek. We all saw it."
"No, I wasn't aware." The blonde looked thoughtful. "A pattern," she said slowly, and Regan nodded.
"It seemed like it to me. Three women connected to Rachel's House are hurt yet again by their abusers, and those three particular men end up dead shortly after."
"Which means we don't have just a serial killer, but a vigilante running loose."
Regan shook her head. "I just noticed the pattern, that's all. I have no idea what it means." She grimaced. "Except that it makes Rachel's House even more entangled in this mess."
Detective Garrison smiled at her. "I'm going to do my best to get you un-entangled."
"There's one more thing," she said. "We had a woman leave, yesterday. Amber Winn. She went back to her boyfriend, and I've heard he's already abusing her again."
"You've heard? From her?"
"No. She's probably too embarrassed to call Rachel's House, because she thinks she's failed us by going back. That's a typical response. They don't think about the fact that we're all holding our breath, thinking she's dead." Regan suppressed a shiver. "But Mrs. Tanaka saw her, with her old boyfriend."
"You think he might be a target?"
"I wondered," Regan said.
"Do you have the boyfriend's name?" the detective asked.
"I can find out." "Do, please."
Regan nodded, then turned to the matter at hand. "I've sort of let them assume you're here because of Dawn's ex," she said.
Lynne nodded. "Fine. I'll work with that in mind."
"Shall we get started? They're dreading this, and I'd like to get through it quickly. Besides, our roofer's at the hardware store, and this is likely the only quiet we'll get till tonight."
"Of course. You have only six residents at the moment?"
"Until we get a woman and child coming in this afternoon."
"I didn't think you took children," Lynne said.
"Normally, we don't. There's generally a focus in this field on the children, and women alone can sometimes fall through the cracks, so we chose to specialize. And we don't usually take women who are freshly out of their situation, we focus more on those who are beyond the crisis stage. But the other shelters are full at the moment, and we're certainly not going to turn away an emergency case like this."
Lynne nodded, then looked down at her list of names. "Let's start with Marita Bowers."
Regan hesitated. "If you're thinking she's a suspect, because of what happened with her husband, you're wrong. She's come further than anybody here. She's put it behind her, and she'll be leaving soon, starting a new life."
"But she did try to kill him," Lynne said.
"She never denied that. But it was only after he'd nearly killed her three times. You should see her hospital records—"
"I have. I know how bad it was for her. And I interviewed her father just yesterday, so I know she grew up in hell, too."
"I didn't know you'd talked to him."
"We thought he might be a suspect."
Regan gave a short, sharp laugh. "He'd be more likely to help you hunt him down, out of fear for himself."
"So I gathered. Look, I'm not saying Marita wasn't totally justified in fighting back. But I do have to consider her actions in this investigation."
Regan let out a held breath. The memory of that morning came back to her, Marita looking at the newspaper headline about murder number three.
Not mine, I suppose. I'm not that lucky.
Marita had said it, with that sort of bitter edge that marked the language of many survivors, but Regan couldn't believe she would do it. She just couldn't.
"I'll go get her," Regan said abruptly.
She found Marita stirring the same cup of coffee she'd been stirring when Regan had gone to answer the door.
"I'm the first victim?" Marita asked, a touch of bitterness in her voice.
"So it seems. But it may not be that bad," Regan told her. "I don't think she's out to get any of us."
"You trust her?" Marita asked.
I don't distrust her," Regan said, knowing the woman would understand the fine line.
Still, Marita eyed the detective warily as she took a seat on the couch. And when Regan turned to go, Marita protested.
"Can't she stay?"
"I'm afraid not," Lynne said. "I'm sorry. I'll try to make this as painless as possible." "Sure."
Marita's jaw was set mutinously, and Regan lingered, uncertain.
"I'll need to ask you about the assault on your husband."
"I figured as much."
"In detail."
Marita's mouth tightened. "I figured that, too." Regan smothered a sigh and left the room.
As he settled the ladder into place against the eave of Rachel's House, Alex watched the attractive blond woman on the edge of his vision.
"She came while you were gone. She's a cop, another detective. The one who talked to me said so."
He turned his head to look at Mitch Howe, the gardener. Regan had briefly introduced them, but although he was friendly enough, Alex had a feeling the man didn't quite trust him. He couldn't blame him for that, he supposed. Strangers were suspect, especially now. Look at the way even the meek Mr. Pilson had charged over.
"Guess they have to talk to everybody," he said noncommittally, although he'd already guessed who she was. He'd known from his mother that one of the lead detectives was female, and that she would be handling most of the contacts with Rachel's House, for the sake of the residents.
"She's pretty, for a cop," Mitch said.
Alex nodded. The
blonde looked tough and fit, but there was a warmth about her, a softness in her eyes that suggested she still had feelings beneath the disciplined, businesslike exterior. He wondered if she could hang on to that, after working a long and bloody case like this one.
"You think they'll catch this guy?" Mitch asked.
Alex shrugged. "I don't know. I know they're working hard on it."
"He seems awfully smart. They keep saying he doesn't leave any clues."
"If he was sloppy, they'd have caught him by now," he agreed.
"I'd hate to be one of those guys he's after. They must be looking over their shoulders all the time."
"Which doesn't bother me overmuch," Alex said. "And thinking of them afraid for a change doesn't, either."
Mitch grinned then, and seemed to relax. "You work for the Court people?" he asked.
"I've done a lot of things for them over the years, yes."
"Must be nice, to be that rich."
"They pay me well enough," Alex said.
He was used to the comments, even when they were made to his face as Alex Court
. It no longer bothered him. He was secure in the knowledge that his family had worked long and hard to get to where they were. They also put a great deal of their wealth back into the community. There were programs in operation all over the country thanks to CourtCorp, programs to help anybody who wanted a hand up instead of a handout.
"Come to think of it," Mitch said, "they pay me well enough, too. I mean, Rachel's House writes the check, but I know the money comes from the Courts."
"You earn it, from what I can see," Alex said. The man put in long hours three days a week, and Regan had said he often stopped by to do a little extra work on other days.
"Thanks. I think it's important things be as nice as I can make them here. It was so ugly for most of them, where they came from."
"I guess everybody does their bit in their own way," Alex said.
"Everybody who cares," Mitch said. "But nobody does as much as Regan."
No, nobody does, Alex thought. But he hadn't known her long enough to know that, not in Mitch's view. "She seems to work pretty hard," he said instead.
"Not just that. She cares. Really cares. She's special."