Killer Secrets

by Sherrie Orvik

  Now that she thought about it, those were exactly the reasons he bothered her. She couldn’t tell him any of that.

  “I don’t like being lied to,” she murmured.

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t give you all the facts.”

  “Same thing.”

  He sighed and sat in the chair across from the bed, facing her. She felt him looking at her, but she stared at the floor.

  “Look, Maggie. I know you’ve been hurt. I do. But I need you to at least try to trust me. I’m not going to hurt you—I want to help you. The sooner you realize that, the better off we’ll both be.”

  Maybe he was right. After all, she needed a safe place to stay, and this was safer than the hospital or a hotel could ever be. Given the way she had behaved at the hospital, it was no wonder he hadn’t been up front with her.

  “You knew I wouldn’t have come, didn’t you?”

  “What?”

  She raised her head to look at him, hoping her softened tone would be enough of an apology.

  “If I knew it was your house. You knew I wouldn’t have agreed.”

  One corner of his mouth pulled into a grin. Apology accepted.

  “Well, you did kind of give me the impression you didn’t want my help. Besides, technically speaking, this really is my grandfather’s house. Oden and I live here so I can help him when Helen isn’t around.”

  Part of her wondered how it would feel to have someone care for her like that. What would it be like to rely on someone? To trust? She was pretty sure that life must have taught her some hard lessons—lessons about trust and about how it was safer to keep people at arm’s length.

  You make me want to trust you, and that makes you dangerous.

  She needed space; some time alone. She hadn’t gotten any time to herself to try and clear her head. She certainly couldn’t think with him so close, looking at her with that smile that seemed to chip away at the wall she’d built around her heart.

  She stood, wanting to get some distance between them. Blood rushed to her head, every stitch pulled against the skin of her scalp. Her side ached and pulsed.

  No. Not again. She was not going to need his help this time. She dropped onto the bed, trying to hide the fact that it was either sit or fall.

  James stood and put his hand out. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah.” She rubbed her forehead, ignoring his hand. “My head is pounding, though. I think I need some sleep.”

  “Alright. Oden will stay with you. Listen,” he said, his expression and tone serious, “I need you to stay away from the windows. If anyone sees you, you’ll have to be moved to a different safe house.”

  She had almost forgotten that this was a safe house. And she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. As uncomfortable as James made her, there was something about being here she liked. It was a feeling she didn’t know she’d missed until her interaction with Pops and Helen. The feeling of being cared about, being noticed. The same way James made her feel.

  She looked down, hoping her face wouldn’t betray her emotions. “Alright. Thank you, Sher—”

  “James. I’m not on duty, and my name is James.”

  She looked up and met his gaze. “Thank you, James.”

  “That’s better. And you’re welcome.” He walked to the door, pausing before he pulled it closed. “Try to get some rest. You’re safe here.”

  His words rang in her ears as she laid her head on the pillow. You’re safe here.

  Here. She knew he meant Pops’ house, but she had a feeling she’d be safe wherever James was.

  “Oden,” she patted the bed. The bloodhound jumped up onto the double bed and lay beside her. She rested her arm across his soft belly and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  “Momma, no! I won’t leave you,” Maggie screamed.

  “You have to, baby. He’ll kill you. Run if you want to live!”

  The bloody room suddenly filled with trees, and she ran, every pounding footstep behind her filling her with terror.

  Trees. Hide in the trees. She found a tree that would hide her and crouched beneath its branches. He was coming—she could hear the pine needles crushing under his feet. Then, silence. Darkness and silence. He was gone. She climbed out from under the pine and surveyed her surroundings, trying to get some bearing.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he hissed, coming out of nowhere. He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her head into the jagged bark of the tree. Then he was gone.

  Her head was pounding, and she felt blood begin to trickle down her forehead. She placed her hands over her temples, her body rocked back and forth. “No, oh, please help…it hurts!”

  “Maggie.”

  “Maggie, wake up!”

  She opened her eyes, and she was sitting up in bed, her head pounding. James sat next to her, his hand on her arm.

  “Are you alright?”

  “My head is killing me.”

  He opened the med bottle and did a quick count. “You didn’t take a pain pill?”

  “I…”

  “Here, take this.” He handed her a glass of water and a pill. She popped the pill in her mouth and guzzled the entire glass of water.

  “I know it hurts, but try to relax.” He brushed the strands of sweat soaked hair away from her face, his touch as gentle as his tone. “Your head will feel better if you relax a little. Take some nice, slow breaths. You had another nightmare, but it’s over now. It was only a dream.”

  “No, I think it’s more,” she muttered. “I see a bloody room, and running through the woods, and the man in the ski mask is there. He slams my head against a tree, and then starts to choke me. Then…I don’t remember.”

  She looked at him and shook her head. “The part about the attacker is real. And I have these dreams over and over.” Her voice cracked, and she closed her eyes, trying to conceal the tears that were threatening to reveal her weakness. It was no use. She opened her eyes, and the tears ran hot down her cheeks. “What if the room is real, too? What happened…there’s so much blood…what happened in there?”

  He put his fingers under her chin and lifted her face. “I don’t know, Maggie. But I promise you, we’ll figure this out.” He put his arms around her, and she rested against his chest, her head still pounding, her tears staining his shirt.

  He didn’t say anything else, just held her while she cried. She cried because she was in pain. Because she was afraid. Because she was tired. She cried for a past she couldn’t remember, and an attacker she could.

  Her tears on his shirt released the smell of fresh laundry, bringing her out of the haze of sleep. She pulled back enough to look at him. He was clean shaven, his short sandy brown hair neatly in place. He was wearing a worn pair of Levi’s, and a blue t-shirt lay casually over the muscles of his arms and chest. A different blue than his uniform, but it still drew her attention to his eyes.

  She felt a catch in her breath, a skip in her pulse. She moved herself away from him, trying to get some space between them.

  “I…I’m sorry.” She wiped her face with her palms. “I didn’t mean to…” The sunlight through her window caught her eye, making her squint. Memories of her assault flooded her mind.

  “A car! The man who attacked me drove me to the woods. I was in the passenger seat.” She closed her eyes, desperate to remember more. “I…was walking somewhere, and I…I started feeling sick. After that I don’t remember anything until I woke up in the car.”

  “You’re doing great.” His words were simple, his tone encouraging. “You woke up in the car. You escaped—do you remember any of that?”

  “Just the attacker…no, wait. I remember looking into his eyes, feeling his hands choking me…and I couldn’t…breathe.” She reached up and brushed her fingers against the still tender bruises on her neck. “And you,” she said. The feel of his fingers against her neck and the comfort of his voice whispered through her memory. “You asked about the bruises.”

  “Yeah, I did.”<
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  She suddenly remembered the sunlight that had triggered her memories. Morning. Another day had gone by since the attack. Only six days had passed, but each day seemed to put a little more distance between her and her attacker. Each day also seemed to shorten the distance between her and James.

  “We can try some more later,” he continued. “Helen made breakfast, and I think you should eat. You need to keep your strength up.” He put out his hands to help her stand.

  She looked at them, and then turned her face upward to look at him.

  “I know,” he sighed, “you don’t need my help.”

  She reached out and put her hands in his. “Actually, I was just going to say thank you. You’re kind of going above and beyond, wouldn’t you say? Even for a hero cop.”

  He smiled, removing one more brick in the wall around her heart.

  “I’m not a cop right now.”

  She stood, his arms giving her the strength her legs lacked. They started down the stairs, one painful step at a time.

  The smell of bacon and pancakes drifted up the stairway and made her stomach growl. James turned his head and chuckled. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  His smile made her stomach flutter as much as the hunger pangs.

  “I guess I am.” She smiled back and wondered if he felt what was happening between them, then scolded herself—for letting her guard down, for thinking anything was happening between them. He’d rescued her, and now he was doing his job by keeping her safe. End of story.

  Sunlight flooded the living and dining room of the house, its rays like fingers reaching in to greet the occupants. She released James’ arm and closed her eyes, basking in the golden heat.

  “Good morning,” Pops said from the dining room. He was seated at the table, puzzle pieces strewn over the entire surface. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

  “You know, that’s okay,” she replied, half laughing. “Neither can I.”

  “Maggie.” James said to Pops. “Until we find out what her real name is.”

  “Well, Maggie, I’m glad to see you have a little sense of humor. Goes a long way in the healing process,” Pops said, peering over the rim of his reading glasses. “Do you remember if you’re any good at puzzles? This one has me stumped. Haven’t found a new piece in a couple of days.”

  Maggie smiled, putting a piece in place. “Here. This one connects these two rows.”

  “Well, would you look at that,” Pops chuckled. “All this time I had that piece right in front of me. I guess I just needed another pair of eyes—very pretty eyes, I might add. Would you like to help me work on this?”

  He reminded her of her grandfather. Or at least what she thought her grandfather might have been like. His gray hair was peppered with strands of black, hinting at the dark color it once was. Tan weathered skin lay over his frame as if his bones had shrunk, leaving wrinkles and folds. Dulled blue eyes spoke of a life well lived, but not well remembered.

  “I’d like that,” she answered. She felt a connection to Pops. Maybe because she wished she could remember her own grandfather. Maybe because she knew what it was like to have your memory stolen. Or just maybe it was because he was James’ grandfather, and no matter how much she didn’t want it to be true, she felt a connection to James. She sat and started sliding pieces around.

  James stood behind them. She could feel him looking at her. She turned to see him watching them work on the puzzle. He was leaning against the wall, his legs crossed. The muscles of his thighs were relaxed, but still visible through his jeans. The sleeves of his shirt lay perfectly over his lean biceps.

  Even without the five-o-clock shadow, he looked like a GQ model. His strong jawline and piercing blue eyes gave his face the perfect blend of strength and kindness.

  “Did you have breakfast, Pops?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Pops answered, not looking up from the puzzle.

  “Why don’t I go get you both something and bring it out here?” James offered.

  Yes, why don’t you, she thought. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything else as long as she felt like he was watching her every move. She watched him walk down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “He’s a good man,” the elder said after James was out of sight.

  Maybe. She couldn’t deny he had done a lot for her. Not to mention how patient he had been with her. The way he made her let her guard down bothered her, though. She knew it meant trouble. Pain. She would trust him with enough to help him catch her attacker, no more. She had to get better and get out.

  “I’m sure he is,” she replied.

  Pops set his piece down and looked at Maggie, his stare deep and knowing, as if he could see into her soul. She shifted in her chair and pushed a few puzzle pieces around.

  He clasped his bony fingers around the frame of his glasses and took them off to look her in the eye.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His fatherly tone made her want to talk to him, but she knew he would go to James with everything she said. She felt more alone than ever.

  She sighed and tried to smile. “Nothing.”

  “You’re safe here, Maggie. You can trust me. You can trust James. It’s okay to say you’re scared.”

  His ability to read her unnerved her. She wanted to trust him. Wanted to trust them both. But she didn’t know him, and she didn’t really know James, either.

  “I’m not scared of being attacked here.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I think you’re scared of letting someone take care of you.

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides, I’m sure the only reason James brought me here is because he feels guilty for hitting me.”

  Pops frowned and shook his head. “Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. What difference does it make? He didn’t have to bring you here, you know. He could’ve easily passed your case along to the Denver office. They’d have put you in some apartment somewhere and sat on your case, maybe until your attacker got what he was after. James is the only person I know who’d go to the lengths he has to keep you safe and help you get the answers you need. You know,” he said, his tone softer, “gratitude goes as far as laughter does when it comes to healing.”

  She leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms, wishing she had the strength to go back upstairs by herself. She liked Pops, but she didn’t want a lecture from him. Especially when he was right.

  James was taking forever. She was hungry, and she just wanted to eat and go back to her room. Pops had gone back to working on the puzzle, making it easy to avoid eye contact. She looked around the room, trying to ignore the guilt Pops’ comments had stirred in her.

  The round oak table that hosted the puzzle had four chairs and sat atop a multi-colored braided rug.

  There’s something about that rug…

  The rug made her happy. And sad…sad like saying goodbye. Was it a memory? She couldn’t form an image to match the feeling. She sighed, then continued her visual tour of the house.

  A lace doily almost covered a water stain on the buffet along the wall. She imagined people, maybe James’ family, gathered here for a big dinner in the summer, a sweaty pitcher of lemonade leaving its mark on the buffet.

  Just beyond the dining room was the living room, where the couch sat facing the fireplace. Matching wingback chairs graced each side of the hearth. A piano sat against the wall across from the window. An old-fashioned Edison record player sat on a table beside the piano.

  She pushed her chair away from the table, drawn to the pictures that adorned the mantle. Was there a mantle somewhere with her picture on it?

  She was looking at a picture of Pops and a woman she assumed was his wife, surrounded by family, when Pops left the puzzle and came to stand beside her. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and she felt like a child being reassured of a parents’ love after a reprimand.

  “I love that picture.” He smiled and puffed his chest a l
ittle. “That’s me and my wife Gwendolyn with our three sons, their spouses, and all our grandkids. Peter is our oldest, and then,” he paused, closed his eyes and shook his head. It broke her heart to see him struggle with the name of his own son.

  “Oh, yes, that’s Luke and Caryn with their daughter Terry, who’s also a cop. That’s James’ father and his mother Libby—she was pregnant with Matthew in this picture. The scrawny little towhead is young James.”

  “Where are they now? James’ family, I mean.”

  “Libby passed thirteen years ago. Cancer. James was fifteen, Matthew was eight. Hit his dad real hard, of course, and he poured himself into his work as a cop. James shouldered a lot of the responsibility of caring for Matthew—much more than a teenager should. He still blames himself…”

  “Blames himself for what?”

  Pops looked at her, his eyes sad and contemplative, and shook his head. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

  This wasn’t Alzheimer’s, she was sure. Whatever he didn’t want to talk about was painful, and she didn’t know him well enough to push it. One thing was certain, though. Whatever it was had forged a bond between Pops and James that went well beyond the grandson/grandfather relationship.

  She wasn’t sure when was the last time she had felt that kind of connection or had that kind of security—not the kind one gets from knowing the future, but rather the kind one has from knowing that you’re not alone, no matter what the future brings. The feeling she’d been trying to ignore ever since she’d gotten here.

  She brushed away the tears that had pooled in her eyes and pointed at the piano. “Do you play?”

  “No. That piano hasn’t been played in years—I think since my Gwenny passed. Do you know how to play?”

  It wasn’t so much a memory as it was a feeling. The feeling of her fingers gliding over the keys and the peace it gave her.

  “I think I do. May I…would you mind if I tried?”

  His beaming smile was all the answer she needed.

  She opened the bench and looked through the music, settling on Debussy’s “Arabesque.” “Would you like to turn the pages for me?”

  “I would love to.”