by Rachel Lee
She heard him push back from the table, but she didn’t look up. The damn note.
But instead, he emptied their coffee cups and refilled them. She nearly jumped when he briefly stroked the back of her head before resuming his seat.
“You’re not my type,” he said.
Startled, she forgot everything else and raised her head. He was actually smiling at her. “What?”
“A Nordic princess.” He shook his head. “Cool, reserved and blonde. My type is darker with a touch of salsa and a helping of peppers.”
How was she supposed to take that?
He leaned toward her and winked. “My type could be changing, though. You never know. There’s fire inside you, Corey. Let it out.”
“God, you’re impossible!”
He shrugged, still smiling. “I know. I just like everything on the table, out in the open. I spent too many years wondering what was under the table and if it would get me killed. No more of that for me.”
That at least made sense to her, although she still couldn’t understand why he had thought it was so important to get to the root of her feelings, especially about her grandmother and aunt. Why should he care?
Then it struck her what he had meant about trust. He wanted her to trust him with the devils inside her so that he could trust her. Given where he had been and what he had done for six years, that actually made sense to her. Whether she wanted to give him that kind of access was another question. He was right about how rarely she opened up to anyone. If she ever had.
But God, he had come so close to the bone, and hearing it from his lips had hurt. Was she really that broken?
Did any of that even count as broken? She had done what she had to do, and she’d remained strong for a lot of good reasons. Was he suggesting that she should have sobbed all over her friends?
But no, she didn’t think that was it. He was going for something deeper.
She looked at him again. “I called for you when you came in. Because of the note.”
“Yes, you did. I was touched, and I want to help. Will you let me?”
She didn’t know how he could help, but one thing became blindingly clear in her mind. She wasn’t alone. For once, she wasn’t alone. Austin was barreling into places she’d never shared, and letting her know that he was there for her no matter what. “You’re a bit of a battering ram.”
He chuckled. “Sometimes delicacy just won’t work.”
She had to give him that. She also realized that deep within her heart of hearts, she was sick of facing everything alone. Sick of always having to be strong. Sick of always having to pretend that everything was just fine.
Nothing in her life had been fine since her mother’s murder. Nothing.
End of story.
“Get the note,” she said. “Please.”
Chapter 7
Austin went to get the letter from the hall table. She was right, he was a battering ram. He had surprised himself by the way he had pushed her, but he understood why he’d done it. He’d been feeling the pain in her the whole time he’d been here. On the surface she seemed amazingly well-adjusted, but other stuff seeped out around the cracks. She couldn’t really claim to have dealt with the death of her mother because she’d been a child and couldn’t remember it. Hell, she could probably hardly remember the woman.
Then there were her other losses, her circumscribed life, friendships that didn’t extend much past her shop. When it came to that, there was her shop. She kept killer hours and he didn’t think that was entirely from necessity. She worked herself into forgetfulness so she wouldn’t notice the lacks in her life.
Alone, that all would have been disturbing enough, but now there was another note. A third one. At this point he wasn’t about to dismiss it as some sick jackass enjoying a bit of torment for the hell of it.
Then, of course, there was the other thing. The sexual thing. With each passing day he wanted Corey more. He managed to bury it pretty good, but it was there and growing, anyway. He’d have bet his last dollar that she was a virgin, and while he avoided inexperienced women like the plague, Corey was making a shambles of all his good intentions. He wanted her, and the only way he was going to get her was to break down the castle walls and pull her out of the dungeon.
Great imagery. It sickened him actually, to think of her living that way, even though it was close to the truth. But more than desire was goading him. He was truly coming to care about this woman, and even if he never bedded her, he’d at least like to know he’d opened up her world. Someone should have cared enough to do it long ago.
Evidently no one had, and while he’d never say so to Corey, he wondered if anyone had ever put her first. Apparently not even her grandmother had.
He picked up the envelope, wondering if they should open it tonight. She’d been afraid to do so earlier. What had changed? Was she deflecting him? Did the potential threat of these notes seem more welcome to her than any more out of him?
Probably, and he couldn’t blame her. Standing in the hallway, he held the letter and stepped back from what he had just done, reviewing his own behavior.
Then he dropped the envelope and went back to the kitchen empty-handed. This conversation wasn’t done.
She was still hunched in on herself, and it hurt to see it. He had done that to her.
“No envelope?” she asked as he sat again.
“Not yet. First, I’m going to apologize. I had no right to be so hard on you. I wasn’t kind.”
“No, but you were right,” she admitted. “It’s the way I am. I’m not like you.”
“What’s like me?”
“You’re very open and frank.”
“Not always.” He sighed and passed his hand over his face, trying to collect some thoughts here that wouldn’t turn him into a battering ram once again. “I couldn’t be open and frank when I was undercover. Did I like it? No. I was living a lie and I hated it. I used people and I hated it. But it was an important job. Gunrunning across the border is helping to escalate the drug violence. You sit up and take notice when you face the numbers. Over fifteen thousand people were the victims of drug-related violence in Mexico last year. It’s hard to conceive of. It wouldn’t be as awful if it were just the drug gangs killing each other, but unfortunately it never ends there. Innocents get in the way. Reporters get shot. Decent cops trying to protect people get shot. Nobody’s safe when the violence reaches that level.”
She drew a long breath, and he was relieved to see that she uncurled and sat up straighter. She was letting go of the hurt he’d inflicted. It would come back, of course. Pointing it out wasn’t a cure. It was merely an opening.
“And then there are those Indians you spoke of.”
“The Tarahumara. Yes. A people who’ve been fighting since the Spanish arrived just to be left alone. Now too many of them are caught in the drug wars, too.”
“And you just merrily tripped your way into the middle of this.”
“Merrily wouldn’t be the right word. I oozed in like slime, very slowly and carefully.”
She blinked, and then a sound escaped her that made his heart ache. “Slime? You oozed?” She actually laughed, broken though it sounded.
“Best way to describe it,” he admitted. “I had to become familiar before I could get anywhere I needed to go. Anywhere at all. Undercover work takes time and care. Finesse. Exactly what I haven’t used with you.”
“I don’t need finesse,” she said, but her face drooped again. “Look, Austin, I’m sorry, but I’m feeling as shredded as the pork we had for dinner. At least to some extent you’re right about me. I need to deal with it.”
“The way you always deal with it? Or are you going to let someone help you?”
“You seem to have already started the process. You may be stuck with the r
esults.”
“I can live with it.”
“I guess we’ll see. In the meantime, let’s just look at that note. I won’t sleep tonight wondering, even if I won’t sleep because of what it says. It’s sitting out there like a ticking bomb.”
“I’ll get it.”
He brought it back to the table. “Do you want to open it, or do you want me to?” He tossed it on the table and pulled his chair around so that he could sit closer to her.
She was being too calm, he thought. She had pulled back inside her walls and was locking things out again. Maybe he’d been wrong to even try to breach them. If she built her walls higher and stronger because of him, he’d go beat his head on something and clear out of town before he made matters any worse.
“You open it,” she said tautly. “For some reason, I don’t even want to touch it.”
Well, he could understand that, and at least she wasn’t trying to be tough about it. He twisted around to pull a knife from the drawer, then slit the top of the envelope. “I suppose I should wear gloves.”
“There are some rubber ones under the sink. I don’t know if they’re big enough for you, though.”
“Then I’ll do it differently.” He spread the envelope open a bit with the knife and peeked in. “Same scrap of paper.” Then he used the knifepoint to tease it out of the envelope until it lay on the table between them.
Like mother, like daughter.
They stared at it a moment. Corey gave a truncated laugh, almost as if she couldn’t believe it. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.” But given what had happened to her mother, he found this note infinitely more threatening.
“My mother? This creep keeps bringing up my mother?”
He was glad to see her anger, not fear or despair. But then she jumped up. “I’ve had enough. Really. I’m going to my room. Maybe I’ll sit there like Madame Defarge and knit all night.”
She stormed out of the kitchen and down the hall. He heard her door slam like a punctuation mark. She was mad, with every right. And he didn’t think it was just because of this note.
He slipped his hand into his shirt pocket and dug out his cell phone. He punched Gage Dalton’s personal number.
* * *
Gage arrived twenty minutes later with evidence-collection materials. “You didn’t touch it?”
“Not the note. We both handled the envelope, but so did the post office. I slit the top with a knife and used the knifepoint to tease the note out onto the table.”
“Good.” Using tweezers, Gage lifted the paper and slipped it into a clear plastic evidence bag, which he sealed and wrote the date and time on.
“What the hell,” he muttered as he looked at the note through the plastic. “This is purely ugly.”
“No kidding.”
“The other notes?”
“Corey has them tucked away. And no, I’m not going to get them. This is her place. I already trespassed enough by calling you, but I didn’t want to risk losing prints. You’ll have to ask her for them.”
“I’d have appreciated it,” said Corey from the doorway, “if you’d asked me about this.”
Her eyes looked hollow, but there was a flame deep in them. He saw a woman at the breaking point, and he’d helped put her there. “Sorry. You’d gone to your room and I got the distinct feeling you didn’t want to be bothered.”
“You were right,” she said sharply. “I’ll get the other notes, much good they’ll do.”
Gage looked at Austin. “Why do I feel like I just stepped into a heap of manure?”
“Because you did. My fault.”
Gage frowned. “I didn’t put you here to cause trouble.”
“No.” But Austin wasn’t going to argue with him. Gage had been hoping that having a guy around would loosen up the steel bands that held Corey in their grip, but nothing was that easy. Hence tonight’s manure.
Corey returned with the other two envelopes and handed them to Gage. He read them, then tossed them in another evidence envelope.
“Okay, then,” he said. “I can see why you didn’t think the first two were worth calling me about, Corey, but this one is an escalation.”
Pale, rigid, she folded her arms and gave a short nod. She gnawed her lower lip. “Is this guy dangerous?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Gage answered. “But I get the feeling he’s trying to scare you. He knows about your mother? Most everyone in town with a memory who is old enough knows about that. This last one, though...that’s directed at you. It’s meaningless enough on the face of it.”
“Except that someone went to the trouble to send it,” Austin remarked.
“Exactly,” Gage answered. “But the meaning is anything but clear. Did the writer know Corey’s mother? Does he just mean they’re alike in some way? Looks? Personality? Or is he trying to say something else? Damned if I know. But this note does seem more threatening somehow, especially given that it’s the third one. I’m going to run it for prints. If we find any, we’ll see if we can find a match on the federal database, but that could take weeks, and we might not find anything at all.”
“I know,” Austin said. But his attention was no longer on Gage. He was staring at Corey, and he didn’t like the way she was looking. As if she had been hollowed out. He felt a sharp twinge of guilt.
“Just be careful, Corey. If anything at all seems out of the norm, let me know. Austin, keep an eye on her. This might just be some idiot who needs a good psychiatrist, but there are no guarantees.” He paused. “These are being mailed here in town. That means we’re not going to get some easy lead, like some stranger who started hanging around.” He gave Austin a crooked smile. “You’re the only stranger right now.”
“But I arrived after Corey got the first note.” His statement was weak and he knew it. He could have arrived a couple of days earlier and mailed the first note before introducing himself. “I’ll leave if it’ll make things better.”
Corey surprised him by speaking. “No,” she said. “It won’t make anything better.”
* * *
After Gage left, Corey retreated to the front room. She used it seldom because she was rarely home. Another mark of her messed-up life, she supposed. After a minute, Austin joined her, hovering as if he wasn’t certain of his welcome. Without a word, she waved him to the chair facing the couch she sat on. Old furniture, ripe with memories of her grandmother and her aunt, of her childhood here with them. Behind the couch there was a place where her mother, as a child, had written her name on the wallpaper. “Olivia.” Nobody had ever bothered to repaper the wall.
There were also photos. She watched Austin look around at them. Maybe those photos were part of the reason she didn’t spend much time in this room. Her grandmother had framed quite a few, including a couple of larger frames that held multiple photos, one for her, one for her aunt and one for her mother. Three generations, but only one remained.
“Your family?” Austin asked.
She nodded. Deep inside she felt hard and tight, withdrawn somehow. As if she wasn’t really there.
“I’m sorry I called the sheriff without asking first,” he said. “I guess I’m too used to making my own decisions.”
“It doesn’t matter.” At that moment, very little seemed to matter. She felt as if she stood on a high, dark pinnacle in the middle of nowhere. As if she had been plucked from her familiar life. Crazy thinking, but it was how she felt.
“Yeah, it matters,” he said. “All I could think of was the importance of preserving possible evidence, and with the way you had gone to your room, I thought you wouldn’t want to be disturbed. I was wrong, focused entirely on the wrong thing.”
“No,” she said. Even that word seemed to take a lot of energy.
His dark
eyes settled on her, seeming to measure her. “Is this what you do?” he asked. “Just shut down when it gets to be too much?”
“Apparently so,” she murmured, closing her eyes. Drifting in emptiness seemed preferable to dealing at the moment. She’d get back to dealing, she always did, but right now...not right now.
All of a sudden, she felt hands grip her shoulders. Her eyes snapped open and she saw Austin kneeling in front of her. His gaze was so intense that it seemed to burn right through her.
“You went to this place when you were seven,” he said quietly. “There’s no reason to do it now, Corey. You aren’t alone.”
Anger, like lava, poured into the quiet dark that had surrounded her. “Who the hell do you think you are? Haven’t you battered me enough for one night?”
She saw his head jerk back. His hands released her. She felt a momentary satisfaction. He’d been dishing it out all evening. Her turn.
He jumped up and started walking away. Not a word, just leaving her. Good. She needed some time to deal with the shambles he’d already made of her. Time to find her bearings, raise her defenses...
But he turned around suddenly. “Hate me,” he said. “Even hate is better than nothing.”
The words seemed to make no sense, but the next thing she knew, he sat on the couch and pulled her into his lap. Astonished, furious at being manhandled, she opened her mouth to yell at him, but the moment was lost as he kissed her.
Then she was lost, too.
* * *
Austin was quite sure he was losing his mind, but he didn’t care. He’d had enough of feeling as if this woman’s barriers were keeping him at a distance, preventing even a genuine friendship. He’d had enough of seeing her occasionally peek out from behind the bars that imprisoned her, of seeing the longing flicker across her face only to be quickly banished.
He couldn’t have begun to explain why her carefully cultivated indifference bothered him so much. It wasn’t just that she was living a half life, it was that she was treating him as if he had no reality. Polite, superficially friendly, willing to share a bit of laughter and a meal, but almost never to actually share herself.