New York to Dallas

  “It was more. It was worse.”

  “I know.” He started to reach for her hand, then dropped his. “I know it was. Can you tell me?”

  “At first, it was the same. The room, the cold, the light. So hungry. The same, getting the knife, eating the cheese. And he came in, drunk but not enough. And it starts. He hits me, so hard. So hard, and he’s on me. It hurts.”

  He rose, had to, walked back to the window, stared out blindly. “You were screaming.”

  “I couldn’t stop, and he wouldn’t. But . . . they were there, all around us. All the girls. The girls like me, all those eyes watching him rape me. So sad, so empty. All those eyes.

  “And my arm.” Instinctively she wrapped it close to her body. “The snap and the pain when he broke it. And I’m crazy with pain and fear. The same, that’s the same. And the knife in my hand. And the blade’s in him. The blood runs over my hand. It’s so warm. So warm, a comfort. No, no, not a comfort. A thrill.”

  When he turned, she’d gripped her hands together in her lap. “Not like it was, not like I remember. Not that mindless defense, not just survival. I wanted the blood. And so did they. The girls, all the girls telling me to kill him. To kill him. And his face—then McQueen’s—his then his then his. Kill them.

  “I wanted . . . I felt . . . horrible, ugly pleasure. I don’t think I put those marks on you because you hurt me. I think, oh God, I think I fought you because you tried to stop me.”

  She pressed a hand to her face, wrapped her arm around her body, and broke with a shuddering, wrenching sob.

  She tried to turn away when he came to her, but now he knew what to do.

  He held her, stroked her hair, her back, and when she went lax, lifted her into his lap to rock.

  “Why do you suffer for that? Baby, why do you make yourself pay for that? A dream, a nightmare of the nightmare you lived. Only a child.”

  “I wasn’t a child, not at the end. All the girls, Roarke, bruised and bloody and calling for death. But I wasn’t a child when I gave it to them. I was me.”

  “You were a child when he brutalized you. And now you work yourself to breaking for those girls, and for one you saved once already.”

  “I can’t be what I need to be if I kill, not that way. Not in defense, but because I want it over. I can’t be if I enjoy it. Then I’m what they are.”

  “You could never be.” He swallowed back a fresh spurt of rage, fought to keep his voice, his hands gentle. “They tried to make you nothing, those obscene excuses for a mother and father. And you made yourself everything they weren’t.”

  “It scared me. It . . . shamed me. What I felt.”

  “You went to bed exhausted, and angry. That part’s on me.”

  “I might’ve had a little to do with it.”

  He managed a smile as he brushed tears from her cheeks. “Maybe a little at that. Don’t punish yourself for a dream, baby.”

  When she rested her head on his shoulder, he closed his eyes. “Do you want Mira?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe.” Her voice broke again as she tightened her arms around him. “I want you. I want you.”

  “You have me, always. Don’t cry anymore. Don’t cry now.”

  “Her face is in my head. Darlie. I knew he’d take another, but now her face is in my head. I know what she’s feeling now—the shock, the shame, the fear. She’ll have nightmares, too. It’ll happen over and over again, long after we stop him. We have to stop him.”

  “We will.”

  She let out a long breath. “We will. Let me fix those scratches.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, let me.” She drew back, framed his face, looked into his eyes. “Let me.”

  “Well, I expect knowing us, Summerset packed a first-aid kit. It’s likely in the bathroom.”

  “I’ll find it.” She got up, paused. “You stopped me. I know it was just a dream, but you stopped me. It sounds weird, but I think by stopping me, you saved me. So thanks.”

  He could see her, his Eve. He could see what she’d made herself. “We’ve saved each other all along, haven’t we?”

  “I guess we have.”

  She brought out the first-aid kit—ever-efficient Summerset—and sat to tend the wounds. “Jesus, I really went at you. That’s bad enough, but scratching and biting like a girl. It’s mortifying.”

  “You got a couple of punches in, if it makes you feel better.”

  “I’m a crappy person, because it does a little.”

  “Rang my bell once.”

  “And still a little more.” She looked up at him. “Do you ever wonder who the hell we are, that somehow we’ll be okay that I bloodied you?”

  “We’re exactly who we’re supposed to be.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t who you’re supposed to be with me. I just don’t know.”

  “I wouldn’t be, without you.”

  She set the kit aside, touched her lips to the wound on his shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

  “Now what sort of man would admit a few girl scratches hurt?”

  She laughed a little, put her arms around him. There, she thought as he did, we’re okay. Somehow we’re okay. “It’s nearly time to get up.”

  “We didn’t get much sleep.”

  “No, not much.” She eased back, met his eyes. “And still.”

  “And still,” he said before their lips met.

  The need was like breath, simply there. Quiet as a whisper, soft as the light just eking through the windows. Comfort now, he thought, for both of them. Solace and an understanding no one else could give. She tamed the ferocious, tearing rage that reared inside him, channeled it to tenderness. For the moment.

  For their moment.

  He stroked her now, amazed, humbled, she would welcome him after the horror she’d known. Grateful if he couldn’t stop the horror, he could bring her peace and pleasure.

  With each long, dreamy kiss, that horror faded.

  Taking care, they touched each other—gentle hands to soothe and stir. His lips roamed her face—pale, he thought, so pale—soft brushes along her cheeks, that endearing dent in her chin, the strong line of her jaw. And beneath to the delicate skin of her throat where her pulse beat for him.

  She heard him murmur to her, a mix of English and Irish that so lifted her heart. The words, the sound of his voice, moved her beyond passion, beyond need and held her in the open arms of love.

  She’d hurt him, more, so much more than the ugly scratches. She’d seen his face, the shattered look in his eyes when she’d come back to herself. He suffered, she knew, when she went to that place. Those wounds needed tending, too. Helping him heal, feeling him take what she could give, closed her own wounds again.

  For the moment.

  She sighed under him, and her skin warmed under his hands. Now she trembled, not from cold but the slow and steady rise of heat. When her breath caught, it snagged on the bright edge of sensation. He carried her over it, delicately, as he would a fragile and precious jewel.

  Her arms drew him closer, closer as she rose to him, joined with him. Here was beauty after the monstrous, the joy after the grief.

  Wrapped in it, in him, in them, she found his lips with hers and poured into him what flooded her.

  “Stay with me,” she whispered. “Go with me. I love you, I love you.” She caught his face in her hands, let it fill her vision, let herself fall into the wild blue of his eyes. “I love you.”

  He went with her, up, over. And held her as they took the long, sweet glide down.

  “Sleep awhile,” he said when she curled against him.

  “I can’t. I’m all right.” She tipped her head back as she spoke. “I’m better. I need to work now. Work’s . . . I guess it’s a kind of first aid.”

  “All right. But you’ll eat. For me.”

  “I could eat for me, too. A shower, coffee, food, work. Routine. That’s what gets the job done.” She pushed to sitting. “Maybe coffee first.”
>
  “I’ll get it. Have it in bed. It’s early yet,” he added. “I’ll grab a shower. There are some things I have to see to, then I’ll check on the search I programmed for you.”

  “Okay. Roarke,” she said as he got out of bed, “don’t contact Mira. I’m all right, and I’d rather she work with Peabody and the New York team. Getting Melinda and the girl back, getting McQueen and his partner, that’s what we all need.”

  He got the coffee, brought it to her. “Will you talk to her when we get back home?”

  “When this is done, yeah.”

  “All right, then. Drink your coffee. I won’t be long, then we’ll have breakfast and get to work.”

  After he’d showered and dressed, he gave her time alone, heading to the office to check in with Caro, and with Summerset. Nothing urgent from either, he thought, and that was a blessing. A few details to deal with later in the day, more yet when he returned. But for now, he could leave those aspects of his world in the capable hands of his admin and Summerset.

  He started to call for the search results when the house ’link signaled.

  “Roarke.”

  “Good morning, sir. Peterson at the desk. There’s a Detective Jones for Lieutenant Dallas. I’ve scanned and cleared her credentials. Sending a visual now.”

  Roarke watched Bree, standing at the security desk, come on screen.

  “You can send her up.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  He clicked off, started down to the main level. Apparently everyone was getting an early start that morning.

  12

  And, he thought as he opened the door, someone else hadn’t gotten much sleep. She’d done her best to hide it, he noted, covering the shadows under her eyes, adding color to her cheeks. But enhancements couldn’t hide the underlayment of worried exhaustion.

  “Good morning, Detective.”

  “It’s early. I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it until I was already here.”

  “No problem. The lieutenant will be down any minute. We’ll have breakfast.”

  “Oh. I should have—”

  “The three of us,” he said smoothly as he took her arm, drew her in. “You haven’t eaten.”

  “No, I . . . How do you know?”

  “I’m married to one very like you.”

  “That’s the biggest compliment you could give me. I shouldn’t have come without checking first.”

  “There’s no need. I can promise you a working breakfast is what Eve has in mind. Isn’t it, Lieutenant?” he asked as Eve came down the stairs.

  “That’s the plan. Detective.”

  “I was hoping you had a little time before everything gets rolling today.”

  “Why don’t I go up,” Roarke suggested, “set things up in your office.”

  “That’d be good.”

  He brushed his fingers over Eve’s arm as he went by.

  “I apologize, Lieutenant, for intruding, for overstepping.”

  “I’ll let you know when you’ve intruded or overstepped. Get any sleep?”

  “Not really. I’m staying with my parents. I couldn’t stay at my place with Melinda . . . And our parents need me there.”

  “How are they holding up?”

  “They’re scared.” Bree’s fingers worried at the ring on her finger. “I keep telling them we’re going to get her back, and they’re trying to believe me. I told them I was going to the gym before I went in, to loosen up. It’s the first time I’ve been dishonest with them since the night Melinda and I snuck out of the hotel in New York. Gotta see Times Square at night. My idea. Melinda went along because I harped on her, told her I’d go alone. I know what we put our parents through now. I thought I knew, but I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

  She stopped herself. “And none of that matters.”

  “It all matters.” She hadn’t gone to her partner, Eve thought, so she wanted or needed something her partner couldn’t provide. “Why don’t we go up and eat? He’ll nag the crap out of us otherwise.”

  “If I could just have coffee.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I always say.” Eve led the way.

  “It must be nice, being married.”

  Eve thought of clawing out of the nightmare, and Roarke there, right there, holding her. “It doesn’t suck.”

  She stepped into the office, noticed the door connecting to his place was closed. She’d known when he’d brushed her arm, exchanged a look, he intended to give her time with Bree.

  She looked past the case board to the little table by the window set with two covered plates, mugs, juice, and best of all a jumbo pot of coffee.

  “He’s always feeding cops,” she said half to herself. “He can’t seem to help it.”

  “He works with you a lot.”

  “Sort of. He consults. He’s got good instincts and extreme e-skills.”

  “It’s good to be with someone who understands being on the job. I had this thing for a while, but it didn’t work out. He didn’t like the hours, the missed dates. Figured I gave too much time to the job, not enough to him. He was probably right.”

  “You have to be crazy or stupid to hook up with a cop.”

  “Which is Roarke?”

  “I’m still working on figuring it out.” She lifted the lids off the plates. Sighed. “I should’ve known. He went for the full Irish.”

  “Holy Jesus.” Bree goggled at the eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes. “What happened to bad coffee and a stale donut?”

  “Exactly my pre-Roarke breakfast.”

  “Isn’t he eating? There may be two plates, but there’s enough on them for three. Or four.”

  “He’s got some work to catch up on.” She gestured. “Another office.” Eve studied Bree as she sat, poured coffee. “No point letting it get cold.”

  “I look at this, all this food, and I think, what’s Melinda eating? Is he giving her any food? He didn’t always give us food. Is she cold and hungry? Is she—”

  “You need fuel, Detective.” God, she sounded like Roarke. “You need it to help you get through, to help you think and act and do what needs to be done to bring your sister and the girl out.”

  Obediently, Bree picked up her fork.

  “Why did you come here, and not to your partner, or your lieutenant?” Eve asked what she already knew, to give Bree the springboard.

  “Annalyn, she’s the best. But . . . I can’t stop thinking about before, the first time. She understands. She’s worked SVU a long time, and with me, training me. She understands, but she doesn’t know. Nobody does unless they were there, part of it.”

  Bree lifted her gaze to Eve’s. “You were there. You know what he did to us because you saw. What happened then, it’s important to what’s happening now. You know him better than I do, I think. Even though . . .” She trailed off, one hand going to her heart.

  “I kept it.” Deliberately she undid a few buttons of her shirt to show the tattoo. “Melly had hers removed. Everyone told me to do that, have it erased. But—”

  “You want to see it. When you pick up your badge and your weapon before every shift, you want to see it. You want to remind yourself why you’re picking them up.”

  Bree closed her eyes a moment, nodded. “That’s why I came here. You know.”

  “He’ll put it back on her.” Eve saw Bree jerk a little, but it was better to know, to be prepared. “His pride, her punishment. He won’t starve her, but he’ll keep her hungry, and uncomfortable. He’ll keep her alive until he’s finished with me. And since I’m not going to let him finish with me, he’ll keep her alive.”

  Eve ate as she talked, primarily so Bree would follow suit. “He won’t rape her. Even the slim possibility of that lessens since he has the girl. He’s already raped the girl. He feels more powerful now, more in control, more focused with that release.”

  Pain shimmered over her face, but Bree nodded. “He’ll think hurting the girl will make Melly weaker, more malleable, will push her to grief and despair. He used us on e
ach other that way.”

  “You told me you felt sick with relief whenever he didn’t take you, or Melinda out of the room in New York. You were one pissed off kid when you told me that.”

  “I stayed mad as much as I could, so I wouldn’t go crazy. But Melly would beg him not to take whoever he came for. She’d plead with him not to hurt his choice of the night—or day. And when he was finished, threw her back in, locked her up, Melly would just fall apart. That’s what he thinks she’ll do now.”

  “But she’s not a little girl now.”

  “No, she’s not.” Bree firmed her lips. “She’ll get stronger, put everything she has into helping Darlie get through this. She’ll talk to him if he lets her, try to bargain and negotiate, stall. If she can find or make any kind of weapon, she’ll use it. She’d kill him to protect the girl.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap. “And that’s what scares me, more than anything.”

  “He’ll contact us today.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  “I am. He has to brag about the girl. And if he wants to get his hands on me, he has to start that maneuver soon. When he does, we start our next maneuver.”

  “Which is?”

  “We play him and the woman against each other, the way we do suspects in Interview. I’m just hoping for a little more meat first. And this might be it,” she said as Roarke came out of his office.

  He held up a disc. “You were right.”

  “Damn straight. Let’s see her.”

  He passed her the disc. “Once I had her, I ran for ID. She’s going by Sylvia Prentiss, who’s clean as the proverbial whistle.”

  “Why is a whistle clean? I’ve seen whistles that weren’t. Or is it the—” She curled two fingers between her lips, released a quick, high sound suitable for hailing a Rapid Cab on Fifth.

  “If I’m using a whistle,” Roarke considered, “I insist on it being clean.”

  “I don’t understand,” Bree said as Eve loaded the disc. “There’s a whistle?”

  “Only in metaphor. And there’s Sylvia Prentiss, who’s been dead six years and was originally from Oregon where she worked as a travel agent before . . .”