“We contacted Cartier. It’s a custom piece, probably commissioned in the nineteen-twenties given the number code. Their records were destroyed in a fire in the early forties, so they have no idea who it was made for. For all we know it was sold at auction or an estate sale or stolen or—”
Roy cuts in, “Still remains with the same family who originally purchased it.”
Proctor nods, shifts his weight, and resumes his stance.
“Anything from the store cameras?”
“No. The box was thrown and meant to land at the front door. Which means the perpetrator was avoiding the old cameras. The new install has a farther reach and no blind spots.”
I’m ping-ponging between the two of them, trying to read the unsaid parts of this conversation. Roy’s face is grim. Proctor’s impossible for me to read.
Proctor continues, “Normal foot traffic. Nothing unusual. Streets roll up around ten.”
Roy snaps the box shut and sets it back on the counter. “Well, I know it’s not much, but do you have any ideas?”
Proctor cuts his eyes to me. “The previous gifts have been insignificant, cheap. Things you would give a child.”
He’s too detached, and scrutinizing me like I’m something to be studied under a microscope.
“And?” Roy places his hand at the nape of my neck.
Proctor’s eyes go back to him as he continues, “I spoke with her aunts.”
My sharp intake of breath catches his attention. Only his eyes move, and it reminds me of a lizard waiting motionless for prey. I hope he was nice to them. Hope he didn’t scare the bejesus out of them.
He continues. “They’ve never seen a note or handwriting of any kind. Could be the person is aware of handwriting analysis. Or he’s illiterate. There’s always a daisy, either plastic or fresh. Gifts are wrapped in white paper, not wrapping paper but regular copy paper. All gifts pertain to something that occurred in the previous year. He knows someone close to her or is near himself. The ring was an anomaly.”
Roy’s thumb glides back-and-forth over the side of my neck. “You said he.”
Again, Proctor scans me with those shark eyes and nods.
I’m shaking my head. “I’ve always thought it was my mother.”
Dark, unreadable eyes narrow onto me. “Why?”
I step back and bump into a stool. Roy’s hand tightens around my neck. Proctor’s scrutiny is too intense, and I twist out of Roy’s hold and walk around the island to open up the fridge. I grab a Coke, twist the cap off, and rush to the kitchen sink when it fizzes up. Ripping a paper towel off, I clean up the mess and the bottle and take a long drink before speaking. “Who else could it be?” I don’t say I hoped it was her.
Proctor blinks a few times and appears to discount me, turning those frigid eyes onto Roy and continues, “The ring could be an offering. A common practice when a male sees a female as sexually viable and wants to lay claim.”
Roy clears his throat. “Yes, agreed.”
Is Proctor some sort of super-soldier experiment gone wrong? Outwardly, he’s a handsome, fit man. But all his mannerisms are off slightly, like he has to make himself act like a human. Words like serial killer and psychopath spring to mind.
“There’s also the introduction of an outside factor he didn’t anticipate.” Proctor’s speaking directly to Roy. “The perpetrator would see you as a threat to his claim. He’s angry, frustrated. The ring—obviously a big step for him—wasn’t discovered when he’d intended. You’ve taken her from him. It will make him reckless. I’d use it to our advantage.”
“And if Daisy is right and it’s her mother?” Roy asks.
It’s like watching a computer run a program. Proctor doesn’t move a muscle as he stands stock still while he thinks through the scenario.
“A mother only abandons a child if she has no choice or does not want the child. The ring is worth approximately five times what an average person makes in a year. She could have sold it and provided for the child. Therefore, she would not have abandoned her. Thus, the mother did not want her and would not have left gifts. No,” he says emphatically. “It’s not a woman, not her mother.”
The hope I’ve clung to all these years is ripped from my heart.
“Daisy, I’m sorry.” Roy lowers his head to catch my eyes. “I have to agree with Proctor. I don’t think this is your mother’s doing.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, turning back to Proctor. “What do you propose?”
Proctor’s eyes go from me to the ring to Roy. “Three options. We do nothing. Either he will stop, or he will make himself known. Either way, it will allow time to gather information and make a more accurate deduction.”
“Which is what I’ve been doing?” I hate the tinny quality of my voice.
“You’ve taken his gifts,” Proctor responds.
“So you mean next year I’m to let it sit there until it rots or someone else picks it up?”
“Precisely. The giver exacts pleasure from knowing you’ve found the gift. Deny him. For now, we pretend the ring was never found.”
“No, too many people witnessed the discovery. What else?” Roy asks.
“She relocates for as long as needed. The person will seek her out. Make inquiries. Outside her usual environment, it will be easier to pinpoint him.”
“No, nope, not happening.” I walk around to stand beside Roy. “I will not leave my aunts.”
“Sir, given her emotional response to my first two options, I think it best we discuss the last one in private.”
I can tell Roy’s considering booting me from the room. “I want to hear.”
“She’s right,” he agrees. “Be gentle about it.”
“Yes, sir.” Proctor focuses on me. “Wear the ring.”
I cradle the Coke to my chest like it’s a talisman against evil. What does Proctor see when he looks at me? A puzzle to be solved? How can he suggest I wear it? Doesn’t he know how unsettling that is? As he continues to focus on me, I switch my weight from one foot to the other. I’m tingling all over with the need to run, both to get away from this conversation and to get rid of the anxiety hop-skipping up my spine.
Still observing me, Proctor continues, “He’s watching you.”
My hands slightly shake, and I hate how he catches the movement. I can’t deal with this. I shrug off Roy’s attempt to hold me and walk to the French doors, turn around and walk back to the counter. I need to get out of here.
Proctor adds, “We’ll be watching.”
Is he trying to comfort me? Knowing I’m being watched by Roy’s men and my secret birthday giver? “Why would he give me toys for all these years and then suddenly an expensive gift? It doesn’t make any sense.” I point to the ring. “Must have been a different person.” As I say it, I realize my suggestion only makes things worse. “You’re suggesting that a man has been watching me grow up and all along thinking to have me when I’m mature?” I’m on a roll now, my anxiety finding an escape route through my mouth. Probably not the best thing I could do, but I’m not going to stand here and listen to this gibberish, which doesn’t make sense to me. “I was an infant when the gifts started. What sick fuck would do that?” I’m practically jogging in place. “I don’t buy it.”
He smiles. I’m chilled to the bone. With his dead eyes and his teeth bared, he resembles a wax figure come to life. “I see you’re upset.” He remains still. “And your input has merit. Blackmail was my first thought, but you’ve not been contacted. Unless…” He tilts his head to the side. “It’s meant as a warning to someone else. Someone close to you.”
“Who? Are you saying my aunts are in danger?”
“Proctor, enough for now. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.”
“Yes sir.” He starts to leave and stops. “Is she to be put on the list?”
“Yes, Proctor, before all others.”
I’ve turned my back and wait until I hear the front door close. Roy tries to wrap his arms around me, but I twist out of hi
s hold.
“I know he can be abrasive.”
“He’s…” I’m trying to be charitable here. “Not right.”
“He didn’t mean to upset you. He’s not good with people. He was trying to be kind.”
I whirl around, and all I can do is blink at his understatement of the year. “I can’t deal with this.” I head toward the foyer.
He grabs my wrist. “You can.”
“Look. I know you think you’re helping, but you’re not. I’m going upstairs and getting my shoes and going for a run because if I don’t I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” He stretches his neck from side-to-side. “You’re not running in the dark.”
“Then I’m going home.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
I stop resisting and go still. I don’t want to leave either. “I need…” I gaze down at his hand around my wrist. His fingers tighten slightly.
“You can tell me anything.”
Can I? Can I tell him how I could weep for my razor to cut a line of blood on my flesh? How I fantasize about his strong hands holding and spanking the compulsion out of me? That I’m attracted to his kindness as much as the danger that hangs over him like a haze. “I…want…” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Trust me.” His breath is a warm caress against my cheek.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Then we’ll do this my way. Come with me.” He pulls me by the wrist and yanks me along like a kid being dragged away from the pool.
I dig my heels in, and in one swift movement he turns and swings me into his arms and drapes me over his shoulder like a sack of feed. “Stop!” I kick my legs until he clamps his arm over them.
He exits through the French doors and follows a brick path.
I try and brace with my hands against his back to keep from swinging as his long strides cover the distance like he’s on a moving walkway. I turn my head enough to see we’re heading toward a barn.
He opens the door, flicks on the lights, and gently places me on my feet.
I blink, acclimating to the bright fluorescents. Treadmills and stationary bikes and other machines I haven’t seen before dominate one side. Facing the cardiovascular section is a weight room area with a rack of free weights going from hand weights to Honda-sized. Two thick ropes hang from the ceiling over a padded mat. I follow up and up all the way to the rafters, where they’re connected with some type of bracket. The far side of the space contains an actual boxing ring.
He points toward the treadmills. “Come on.”
“I don’t have my shoes.” With him nudging me, I step on board as he hits buttons. The incline comes up, the belt rolls, and I’m walking fast to keep up. “This isn’t jogging. It isn’t going to help.” God, I sound like preteen with a bad attitude.
He doesn’t respond, but instead gets on the treadmill beside me and sets a jogging pace. “Do you want music?”
I shake my head. My breathing escalates as I work to keep up with the pace and the steep incline.
He pulls his shirt off and tosses it to the side of the mat. “Better?” he asks.
Not the escapism I get from running, because, well, I’m running away from my problems. Here, with Roy beside me, it’s an entirely different dynamic, yet the pressure has lessened.
“I think I can guess, but I want you to tell me what triggered it.”
I’m sweating. My bare feet are slapping on the treadmill. Meanwhile, next door, Roy has a steeper incline, is moving faster, and doesn’t even seem winded.
“From now on we talk this shit out.”
His pep-talk skills need some work. “No. What I need is a good, long run, is all.”
“We got all night,” he responds, increasing the speed.
I cut my eyes his way but refuse to look at him. “I shouldn’t be doing this with bare feet.”
“Why? Do you have flat feet?”
“No.” And we continue like this for I don’t know how long ’cause there’s no clock in this infernal place. My calves are burning. I’ve stopped trying to hide my heavy breathing. I can’t stand the silence anymore. “What is he?”
Roy slows his speed. “Proctor?”
And I decrease the incline before my shins fall off. “Yeah, Mr. Personality.”
“He’s brilliant.”
I shake my head. “You want me to talk. I’m talking, and you’re giving me nothing here.”
“You’re making fun of someone you don’t understand. I get it. Proctor creeped you out. And he is brilliant at what he does. So why don’t we get back to the reason we’re here?”
“Exactly what brilliant thing does he do?”
Unbelievably, he increases the speed until he’s jogging uphill. Fine, two can play this game. I put the incline to zero and increase the speed until I’m jogging along beside him.
“What list?” I was going to say more, but I’m out of breath.
“What triggered it?”
Seriously, he’s running me into the ground. I can’t keep up any longer. I’m exhausted. My legs hurt. My head hurts. My feet are numb. The compulsion is gone, but not the shame. Finally, I slam the red button, hop off the damn machine, and almost fall from the sudden lack of motion. “We’re here because I’m afraid,” I scream at the top of my lungs. “And because I’m a cutter. Okay, are you happy? Yes,” I scream, up into the rafters. “I cut myself because it’s the only way I know how to stop the pain. And I know how fucked up that is.” I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m weak and pathetic and a victim. Is that what you want to hear?” Now I’m crying, and he’s walking towards me, and I can’t stand the thought of being comforted. “And I hate myself for it.”
He stops an arm’s length from me. “I can fix this.”
“Are you insane? No, you can’t.” I’ve moved to the ugly stage of crying. My nose is running and my eyes are swollen, but I can’t stop. “I’m broken,” I sob.
And while I have my breakdown, he’s calm and shirtless, which I shouldn’t notice, but I do. It makes me cry even more.
“You’re not broken.”
I sink onto the mat and wallow in self-pity.
“You were traumatized. It’s something I’ve seen way too much of, and it’s not because you’re weak or a victim or broken, but because you had something happen to you, something you had no control over. It wasn’t your fault.”
I use the bottom of his shirt I’m wearing to blow my nose.
“Jason is neutralized. We’ll know soon enough who’s sending the gifts.” He crouches next to me. “When I tell you I’ve got this handled, I do.”
“It’s not so simple.” I realize I’m still yelling and turn down the volume. “You can’t go back in time and fix what happened years ago. You can’t lay hands on me, and suddenly I’m cured.”
“I know.” He stands and reaches his hand out to me.
“I can do it myself.” I slap his hand away. “I’m not your responsibility.” And roll on my knees and stand.
He turns his wrist, checking the time.
“What, you got someplace to be?” Why am I such a bitch to him? “Go, I don’t care.”
Like a punctured tire, he blows out a long breath, emptying his lungs. “I hate seeing you suffer.”
Since I’ve kept my fuckedupedness hidden, I’ve never experienced how it could cause someone I care about pain. “I’m not your problem.”
“You”—he places his hands on his knees to look me straight in the eye—“are not a problem.” He shakes his head slightly and stands straight. “The cutting. It started with Charlie?” I nod. “Your scars…there aren’t many.”
I’d hoped he wouldn’t notice them. “A couple years after Charlie died, I stopped.”
“I see.” He grabs his shirt from the mat and slips it over his head. “So you resumed after that sack of shit Jason, who should not be walking this earth, attacked you.”
“I tried not to.”
“With me,” his tone gentler, “when we’r
e together, you feel safe, correct?”
“I do, but everything’s getting dredged up. The compulsion has passed, for now, but I know it’s coming back,” I whisper. “And it’s going to be bad.”
“Dredge it up. Get it out.” His vehemence rocks my back on my heels. “Pull it out by the roots and stomp it dead.” He’s pacing and raking his hair back. “You’re too much in your own head. Things get to rattling away in there, and you don’t know if you’re upside down or sideways.” He grabs my hands and holds them tight. “Nothing will make me think less of you.”
Even though he says I can tell him anything, I’m ashamed and dip my head and let my hair fall around my face. “You don’t know that.”
He doesn’t argue and releases my hands.
I’m spent and droop to the mat like a snow-burdened branch and sit with my knees drawn up and my arms around them.
With one hand he pulls his cell phone from his pocket, opens it, and places a call. “We’re running late.” He listens for a moment. “We’ll be there shortly.” He nods like the person on the other end can see him and disconnects the call, shoving the phone back in his pocket.
“What are we late for?”
“My cook has dinner waiting,” he responds.
Of course, he would have a cook, and she’d be a female and probably looks like a model.
He crouches and cups my face, lifting it with his large hands and peering into my eyes. “I’m here whenever you want to talk.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow.” I bite my lip when I see his pained countenance.
“You won’t be alone. Gavin will be here.”
I lean back. “I’m not talking to Gavin. I don’t even know him. You didn’t…?”
“He knows you have panic attacks, nothing more. And I meant you can tell him you need help. Remember the card I tried to give you?” I nod. “She’s good. She’s helped many of my employees.” Using his thumbs, he wipes the tears from my face. “We’ve all got scars; some are harder to see than others.”
“Have you talked it out with the therapist?”
His smile is relaxed. “Yes, many times. I’m a better man for it.”
Chapter Ten
Secrets In Our Scars Page 14