She’d been very careful to make sure he didn’t escape again.
Scooping him up, she held him tightly, made sure the door’s chain was fastened, then pulled the door open and peeked out. She didn’t know who she had expected, Julia maybe? The UPS man?
Definitely not Detective Gabe Cooper. Yet there he stood, the strong, solid form unmistakable. His shoulders and hair—i.e., the back of him—were the first things she saw. While he’d waited for her to answer, he’d turned to look around the yard, so he faced away from the door. That gave her a moment to note the way the lazy, end-of-the-day light brought out gold highlights in the thick, coarse hair.
When he didn’t turn around, she took another moment, still peering through the few inches of open doorway, mentally noting a few more things—really attractive, interesting things.
Olivia’s breath got trapped in her throat as she again acknowledged the breadth of those shoulders, which were covered in a lightweight dress shirt. He’d eschewed the loose-fitting, slightly rumpled suit jacket he’d had on earlier, and she couldn’t say she minded. As impressive as he’d been at the police station, he was even more so, now. The powerful creature free from his cage.
All broad at the top, he was slim-waisted, positively lean at the hip, and his trousers did nice things to the taut backside. His long legs were slightly bowed, braced apart, and with his one fisted hand on his hip, he looked almost like a sea captain at the helm, master of all he surveyed.
You’ve got to stop reading those epic historical novels, a voice in her head whispered.
They were her secret indulgence, and swashbuckling pirate stories her favorite of all. She couldn’t imagine what people who probably thought of her as the chick who got off on dying would make of her being a closet romantic.
Finally managing to breathe again, she took one more rueful look, then gave herself a little break for being wowed. Because Gabe Cooper was absolutely stunning to stare at from behind, and every feminine inch of her responded instinctively to all that strength, the male power evidenced by the rock-hard form.
But it was time to stop playing voyeur and let him know his knock had not gone unanswered. Carefully balancing Poindexter under her arm, she gently pushed the door in a few inches, slid the chain free, then reopened it all the way.
He still didn’t notice, probably deafened by the early-evening cicadas that were serenading the entire planet from this little piece of Georgia. His attention remained focused on the treelined yard, the quiet street and the nearby houses. She wondered what he was thinking, if he’d made any more judgments about her based on the fact that she lived in a big house on an exclusive street in the Victorian District.
She also wondered what he’d say if she told him she’d inherited the house and everything in it from her paternal grandmother. The house had been in the family for generations and traditionally had been passed down to the oldest daughter or granddaughter. Her father had only had a brother, so it had come to her in a trust when she’d been only sixteen. She loved the old place but had to work a full-time job just to afford the taxes and upkeep on it.
Realizing she was already on the defensive, she shoved all random thoughts aside and cleared her throat. “Detective? What are you doing here?”
He spun around, eyeing her from behind a pair of dark sunglasses, familiar ones, the ones she’d handed him earlier today. He was probably wearing them to break the ice—a backhanded way of thanking her—because he didn’t technically need to have them on. Not here on the porch and not this late in the day.
But he didn’t take them off, which was just as well. The man’s eyes were a little too distracting. Of course, that just left the rest of his face to look at: the strong nose, slashing cheekbones, truly sensual mouth.
Hell. She really didn’t want to like his looks, not after he’d treated her like some kind of leper this afternoon.
“Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?”
“No.”
“Well, how about that I needed to see you?”
“Why? Did one of my neighbors call and say my cat’s been stalking their bunny?”
One corner of his mouth went up. “You know, that sounds like a euphemism. A kind of salacious one.”
“Ooh, big words for Mr. Average Joe street cop,” she said, knowing she sounded bitchy but unable to help it.
“Can you take out the angry eyes, Mrs. Potato Head, and just let me talk to you?”
She clamped her lips together, tempted to laugh, which wasn’t fair when she wanted to stay mad at him. “So talk.”
“I’m sorry I showed up unannounced. I did try calling.”
She’d ignored the phone, not even glancing at the caller ID, sure it was her sister calling to talk about her latest wedding plans. Olivia wasn’t much in the mood for cheerful, happy-happy-joy-joy sister talk. It was going to be hard enough to go to the engagement brunch tomorrow and face the family with all this going on.
“How about letting me in so we don’t give your neighbors more to gossip about than your bloodthirsty cat?”
Oh, she had no doubt they would already be burning up the phone lines if he were in a marked car. Fortunately, the sedan parked out front was plain, unidentifiable as a police vehicle. She hoped.
“Please, just give me a chance,” he added, his tone gentle, reminding her of the kind streak beneath that tough outer shell.
“All right, come in,” she said, stepping back and letting him enter. Poindexter stiffened for just a moment, eyeing the newcomer. When Olivia firmly closed the door, the feline lost interest, leapt from her arms and sauntered away, ignoring their visitor, obviously not caring that he could be an ax murderer or something. A guard cat, he wasn’t.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said.
“Yeah, well, believe me, I wasn’t expecting to come here, either.”
She stared at him. Hard. “So why did you?”
He finally pushed the glasses up, revealing those springtime green eyes. Such soft, gentle-looking eyes, meant for a man of good humor. Which she definitely hadn’t seen much of in him, with the exception of those brief moments of near flirtation back at the station. It was those moments she’d replayed in her head more than once since she’d gotten home. She’d found herself wishing, not for the first time, that they’d met under different circumstances.
When he didn’t reply right away, she prodded, “Are you here to Baker Act me right into the psych ward?” She was trying to be light but heard the edge in her own voice. He’d hurt her earlier. That he’d had the power to hurt her after she’d known him such a short time surprised her, but it was true.
“Nah,” he said. “You could go around calling yourself Mrs. Santa Claus and nobody in Savannah’d raise an eyebrow.”
“But they will if I say I can use my psychic abilities to help in a murder investigation?”
He sighed, obviously realizing she had her defenses up big-time. “Which is why I came. I’m here to finish our conversation.”
“The one we couldn’t finish because you practically threw me out of the police station?”
He nodded, not denying it. “I regret that, and I apologize. You caught me off guard.”
She liked that he’d admitted it and apologized. And for the first time since she’d opened the door, she realized what a big step it had been for him to come here at all. A few hours ago, he’d looked at her like she was a lunatic; now he was in her house, all big, tough cop.
He looked completely out of place surrounded by her late grandmother’s fussy antiques, the dark burgundy walls, gold drapes, and delicate china figurines on some of the tables. She might have claimed title to the house. But she hadn’t yet claimed clear possession of it, hadn’t put her own stamp on it. Redecorating the whole thing would be a long, slow, expensive process; she had to do it little by little.
While her father would have given her the money to do it, she preferred to make her own way. Freeing herself from his financia
l support had been one of the first steps she’d taken to declare her independence, physically and emotionally. She’d decided a few years back that the time had come to stop letting what had happened to her as a teenager dictate how she would live her life. Putting an end to her parents’ overprotectiveness had been step one.
“Let’s go in the other room,” she said, gesturing toward what had once been a parlor and was now a nicesized den. It was the one area she had been able to afford to redo since moving in, and she immediately saw his stiff form relax a little as he beheld the big, overstuffed couch and solid, blocky wood furniture. She sensed that, like most big, strong men, he didn’t quite know how to act around fragile things . . . or women.
Hmm. She wondered what he’d think if he realized she wasn’t nearly as fragile as she looked. He wouldn’t be the first man to make that mistake. She just wondered if he’d be the first to decide that was a very good thing, not a bad one.
Men often wanted to change her, wanted her to go back to the wealthy life she’d left behind. So far, none had liked her exactly as she was or accepted what she could do. Might he be the exception to the rule? More important, why did she care?
“Have a seat.” Playing hostess to someone who thought she was a few cards shy of a full deck felt a little strange, but she was, after all, Southern. “Would you like something to drink? Sweet tea? I brewed some this afternoon.”
“You regularly offer sweet tea to people who toss you out of police stations?” he asked with a small lopsided grin.
“Do you regularly toss people out of police stations?”
“I’m usually more focused on keepin’ ’em in.”
“You pretty well sucked at that today, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I guess I did.”
“Was that a yes or a no on the tea?”
“No, thanks,” he said, sitting on the sofa. Then, with no further niceties or preambles, he bluntly got to the point of his visit. “Tell me why you need to handle the remains.”
“I told you, I think I can . . .”
He put up a hand, stopping her. “I know what you think you can find out. I want you to tell me exactly what you plan to do and why you think it’ll work.”
She sat down on a chair on the other side of the low coffee table and stared at him from a few feet away. Olivia found herself looking at those flecks of gold in his green eyes, seeking warmth, compassion. Wondering if she could trust him.
A whisper repeated in her mind. Olivia Wainwright: freak of nature.
Sometimes it was an old lover’s voice saying it. Sometimes her former best friend from college or kids she’d known in high school. They all pretty much sounded the same. Revolted.
Fortunately, there were other voices in her life now, voices saying positive things, telling her she wasn’t crazy and that the things she did were for a reason, served an important purpose. Julia’s was a constant reassurance, as were those of the other agents at work.
And then there was her own voice. She’d come to accept herself, what she did and why, and these days the voice she most heard telling her to keep going, that what she did was right and necessary, was hers. That knowledge renewed her confidence. She doubted Gabe Cooper would ever be one of her biggest fans. Still, she had to try.
“Did you call Agent Ames?” she asked.
“I left a message. Now, you gonna answer my question?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her hands against her upper arms. The room suddenly felt cold, even though it got the most late-afternoon sunlight, being on the back of the east-facing house. “You won’t believe me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Try me.” When she still hesitated, he grudgingly added, “I want your help. I think I might need your help. But I have to understand.”
Sitting back in the chair, she replied, “If you want to know what I can do, you have to know why I can do it. Which involves what happened to me that night, the night I escaped.” Doubting it, she had to ask, “Did you read the whole file after I left?”
He shook his head firmly. “I was going to, but my partner, who had read it, suggested I hear the whole thing from your mouth first.”
His eyes shifted to the mouth in question. Her mouth. And she suddenly realized something: He was aware of her, too. He didn’t necessarily like it or want it to be, but at least some of his obvious tension came from the fact that the attraction she’d felt for him wasn’t one-sided. That flirtation back in the interview room hadn’t just been about putting her at ease and getting her to relax. She’d lay money on it.
Olivia couldn’t help smiling just a little, suddenly feeling better about what she had to do. All because he’d stolen that quick, totally male look at her mouth, as if wondering what it might taste like. A man who thought about kissing her even after hearing what she wanted to do with a bunch of old bones had promise.
“Okay, then,” she said, unable to help moistening her lips with her tongue. “I’ll tell you.”
After a quick flash of heat as he again gazed at her mouth, he gave her the full force of his attention. She saw nothing in his stare but interest. Keen, unflinching interest. No derision, no immediate skepticism, though she didn’t doubt he felt it. Mainly she saw patience—she suspected this man had a lot of that.
Really, she had no other choice. The detective wasn’t going to give her what she wanted until she shared her deepest, darkest secret with him. Which meant she had to go back in time. Back to that night, to that one moment, that awful, hateful moment when her old life had stopped and her new one had begun. Back to the five words that had changed everything she thought she knew about the world: What was evil and what was good; what she could survive and what she couldn’t; who she’d become.
Five little words.
Why don’t you drown her?
Chapter 5
Twelve years ago
Olivia tried to run.
When she heard the boy’s brutal suggestion that her attacker drown her, then heard the man’s answering laughter, her body reacted independently of her brain. Panic sent her spinning wildly. Like a bird caught in a cage, she tried to fly, oblivious to whatever was barring her, needing just to escape. She threw all her weight forward, desperate, not even deciding to do it until it was done.
To her surprise, her sudden lunge caught her captor off guard. Thinking she was totally subdued, broken, he hadn’t realized she still had real fight in her. His firm grip broke and she plunged forward, free. Free!
But not, of course. Her hands remained tied behind her back, her feet lashed with rope, her face still covered with the blanket. She was completely lost and terrified.
Still, she didn’t give up, driving forward into the blackness, the rope at her ankles lax enough to allow her to shuffle several inches at a time. The rough ground stabbed at her bare toes, sharp sticks and rocks piercing her flesh. Her long, filthy nightgown whipped around her legs, trying to trip her up. On the third step, her feet tangled, sending her plummeting facedown to the ground. Unable to put her hands out to break her fall, she hit hard, feeling sure she’d broken her nose and a few of her teeth. Blood gushed in her mouth, dripping over her lips, the salty, metallic scent filling her nose.
Sobbing with the pain, she continued to move, desperate, still in a blind terror, needing to go. She started to crawl, propelling herself on her torn-up knees. Inchworm, inchworm . . . the childhood song screamed crazily in her head. Or she screamed. Or the night did.
“Stop it, little bitch,” the man snarled, pouncing on her, driving a knee into her back, before she got more than a foot or two.
She struggled, twisting, kicking.
“Stop wiggling or I’ll make it worse on ya.”
How could it be worse?
He smacked her hard on the back of the head, then roughly ran his hand down her hair, yanking a handful of it. Holding her head back, he tore her tattered nightgown off her body, then thrust his other hand between her thighs, yanking them apart. Thick, roug
h fingers groped at her crotch, tearing her underwear off, too, leaving her naked to the cool spring night.
Olivia screamed, knowing what he meant by worse. “No!”
“I’ll fuck you and then the boy’ll fuck you and then I’ll kill you anyways,” he hissed. “Now shut the hell up and stop fighting.”
She shut up. She stopped fighting.
He rose, pulling her by the hair. Her mouth throbbed, blood spilling down her chin, and she spat out something small and hard that she suspected had once been part of her front tooth.
Surreal. Everything, the whole world tilted and wobbled, up becoming down.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
The horse blanket fell, but his fingers were twined so tightly against her scalp that she couldn’t turn as much as an inch to see him behind her. Blinking, she instead looked forward, dazed and confused. Everything she saw told her it was useless to scream. Nobody was around, who would possibly hear?
Beside them was the rickety old barn, its faded wood planks rotting and dangling by broken hinges. Bleached with sun and age, thinned by bugs and heat, it looked ready to fall down in a strong breeze. At any time during the days she’d spent in there, she probably could have kicked her way out if she’d tried, though, with her guard and the bindings, she probably wouldn’t have gotten far. Still, oh God, did she wish she’d tried.
Several yards away stood a banged-up pickup truck and a rusty mobile camper, the top popped up. Other than the two vehicles, nothing but wilderness. Not a building, not a vehicle, not another man-made thing as far as she could see. Just enormous ancient trees blocking much of the cloud-swathed sky. Whatever farm or plantation this barn had once belonged to had been abandoned or reclaimed by the ground from which it had been birthed. All that was left were the barn and the woods. Nasty, thick, Georgia swamp-woods, the trees heavy with moisture from a recent rain. Enormous spiderwebs filled the branches, glimmering like freakish silver necklaces in the pale, watery moonlight. She could practically see their occupants, brown, furry spiders as big as her fist, but she didn’t even flinch.
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