“The motor revved?”
She nodded.
“Did you notice any details about the car? Make? Model? Plate number?”
“All I saw were headlights. It happened fast.”
“Did the driver have his high beams on?”
Her brows snapped together, then her gaze went to his. “I think they were.”
“Then what happened?”
“At first I thought he was going to pass me. You know, that he’d just gotten too close. I moved onto the shoulder. And the next thing I know the car is so close I could feel the heat coming off the engine.” In an unconscious protective gesture, she wrapped her arms around herself. “Bumper hit my left hip. The impact sent me airborne.”
A shudder moved through her. He wasn’t sure if it was his hormones flaring or his need to protect, but the urge to touch her was powerful. But Frank kept his hands to himself.
“Did he stop? Did you hear him apply brakes? Did you hear the tires lock up in the gravel? Anything like that?”
Her eyes were filled with knowledge when they met his. “No.”
Frank didn’t like the way this was shaping up. Even a driver who was legally drunk would usually attempt to stop, even if it were only for a few seconds before realizing what he’d done and fleeing the scene. That left only one scenario: Whoever had struck her had done it on purpose.
The thought sent a wave of fury rolling through him. He wondered if she’d drawn the same conclusion. If she would have been so forthcoming without the tongue-loosening effect of the sedative.
“Do you think it was an accident?” he asked.
Her eyes were liquid and very dark when she raised them to his. “A drunk driver, maybe.”
Frank didn’t buy that for a second. He didn’t think she did, either. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t telling him the whole story. The only question that remained was why.
TWENTY
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 11:12 A.M.
By the time the X ray arrived from radiology, Kate was climbing out of her skin. She didn’t like hospitals. Didn’t like being poked and prodded. She sure as hell didn’t like the idea of some son of a bitch trying to run her down.
One look at Frank, and she knew he was feeling protective. Kate wasn’t sure how she was going to handle that. The man was sticking to her like glue.
The doctor gave her a clean bill of health and within minutes they were in Frank’s truck and on the way to her house. The doctor had prescribed some mild painkillers, which was a good thing because by the time they pulled into the driveway, every bruise and scrape had come to life with a vengeance.
“Stay put,” Frank said as he parked in the driveway. “I’ll get the door.”
Kate reached for the handle anyway. She was halfway off the seat by the time she realized the doctor hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her she was going to be hurting. Every muscle in her body felt as if it had been run over by a steamroller.
“I’ve got you.” Putting his hands beneath her arms, Frank eased her to the ground.
“I can do it.”
“Yeah, I can tell by the way you’re groaning.”
“I’m not groaning, damn it.”
“Whatever you say.” He closed the door and they started for the house.
She pulled mail from the mailbox while he took her keys and unlocked the front door. She walked into the living room and tossed the mail on the coffee table, absurdly happy to be home. She’d been planning on getting rid of Frank, grabbing a quick shower, then heading to the office. But as she crossed to the dining room, her head began to spin and she realized it was going to take a lot more than a shower to get her to the office.
Gingerly she walked to the kitchen, aware that Frank was behind her, watching her. She could hear the prescription bag crackling. Trying to appear unaffected, she pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it with cold water from the refrigerator. “Thanks for driving me home,” she said, keeping a light tone.
“No problem,” he said.
Turning to face him, she feigned a yawn. “I think I can take it from here.”
One side of his mouth curved. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”
“I like you, Matrone. Why would I try to get rid of you?”
“Because I’m not going to let you go to the office. Because I’m going to ask you questions about what happened. Because I’m wondering why someone tried to kill you.”
Kate had been putting off thinking about that last part. But she knew that at some point she was going to have to face it.
“Why don’t you take your shower and I’ll whip up some lunch? Then you can answer some questions, crawl into bed, and call it a day.”
She blinked at him, not sure if she was annoyed or charmed by his offer. “I’m not hungry.”
“You can’t take these on an empty stomach.” He set the prescription bag on the counter. “Judging from the way you’re moving, you need them.”
Kate had thought she was doing a pretty good job of hiding the pain, but she was quickly realizing Frank was more observant than she’d given him credit for.
“We need to talk about what happened.”
He was watching her closely. Too closely. His scrutiny was beginning to annoy her.
“I already told you everything,” she said. “It was a hit-and-run. A drunk driver more than likely. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” But the explanations sounded lame even to her.
“Kate, has it crossed your mind that maybe this wasn’t an accident?”
“Of course I’ve considered that,” she said. “I’m aware of the possibility that I’ve made some enemies over the years. But I’m diligent about reading the latest prisoner-release reports from TDOJ, and I know there’s no one I sent to prison who’s been recently released.”
“Those reports don’t take into consideration the prisoner’s pissed-off family members or spouses.”
“I think you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“I can’t tell if it’s those painkillers making you dense or if you’re so deep into denial you don’t see what could be happening.”
“What I see is an ex-cop overreacting to a hit-and-run accident, reading all sorts of sinister conspiracies into it.”
Lowering his head, Frank pinched the bridge of his nose. “They say doctors make the worst patients.” He raised his head and scowled at her. “From what I’m seeing here prosecutors make pretty bad victims.”
Not liking the way he used the word victim, Kate turned away and started toward the living room. For an uncertain instant she stood there, looking around, desperately needing something to do, anything to keep this man from digging into something she did not want uncovered.
“This is the third incident inside two weeks,” came his voice from behind her. “For God’s sake, you’re a prosecutor. You know better than to let things go unresolved.”
She turned to face him. “What do you want from me?”
“The truth would be a good start.”
“I haven’t lied to you.”
“Lying by omission. You’re keeping something from me.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Kate.” His voice softened. “I’m not the enemy.”
He reached for her arm, but she stepped back. She tried hard not to limp as she strode to the coffee table and picked up the stack of mail. Ignoring Frank as best she could, she carried the mail into the kitchen. Junk mail went into the trash. Bills onto the built-in desk next to the refrigerator, along with an advertisement she wanted to look at later. She liked everything in its place. She was in the process of tossing several pieces into the trash when the plain white envelope caught her attention. There was no return address. Not even a postage stamp.
Curious, she carried the unmarked letter to the bar. The envelope wasn’t sealed. She lifted the flap, pulled out the single sheet of paper, unfolded it and began to read.
I could have had you this morning. Just like before, I could have had you on the ground, helpless and whimpering and begging me to stop. Do you remember, Katie? Do you wake up in the middle of night and think of me? Am I in your dreams? Your nightmares? I think of you all the time, sweet Katie. Even after all this time, I long for you. I ache for you. Get ready, because I’m coming for you.
Shock was a violent punch to the solar plexus. For several seconds she couldn’t catch her breath. Kate stared at the ominous words, disbelief and dread climbing up her throat to fill her mouth with bile. Vaguely she was aware of the paper shaking in her hands. Of her heart pounding out of control. Of Frank watching her with a quiet intensity that made her want to turn tail and run.
“What is it?”
His voice came to her as if from a great distance. Folding the note, willing her hands to still, Kate tucked it back into the envelope without meeting his gaze. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?”
She raised her gaze to his. She’d almost convinced herself he was going to let this slide. But Frank Matrone didn’t let things slide. One look into his eyes and she knew he was going to force open a door she wanted to keep locked down tight.
“You’re sheet white.” His gaze flicked to the note, then back to her.
“I’m just . . . shaken up from this morning. That’s all.”
“You’re a hell of a lot more than shaken up.”
Making a sound of annoyance in an effort to hide the hard churn of emotion, she turned away. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Give me the note.”
“No.” She started for the hall.
“Kate, damn it, if someone is stalking you . . .” His voice trailed. “You’re too smart to ignore this.”
That stopped her. As desperately as she didn’t want to open the Pandora’s box of her past, Kate knew he was right. She could no longer ignore this. She could not sweep it under the rug and hope it would go away. But there was a very large part of her that simply couldn’t bear the thought of bringing what had happened to her and Kirsten eleven years ago back into her life.
For a full minute she stood with her back to him. She could feel herself shaking, both inside and out. She could feel Frank’s eyes on her, but she didn’t turn to face him.
“Let me see the letter,” he said.
When she didn’t move, he crossed to her. Without speaking, he turned her to him. His face was solemn when he opened her fingers and took the envelope. Kate could feel her emotions burgeoning as he opened it and began to read. For the first time in a long time she wanted to crumple. She wanted to curl into a ball and hide. Shame and outrage and a thousand other feelings she couldn’t begin to name overwhelmed her, like a tidal wave swamping a tiny island.
Kate had always considered herself an enlightened and educated woman. She dealt with all types of crimes on a daily basis. She knew what had happened to her and Kirsten was not her fault.
But nothing would ever erase the shame. The scars. Nothing would ever ease the terrible weight of guilt for what had happened to her sister.
Hugging herself, she walked to the bar, pulled out a stool, and climbed onto it. Closing her eyes, she lowered her face into her hands and tried not to cry.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 11:49 A.M.
Frank had always possessed a sixth sense when it came to lies. He’d known for quite some time that Kate was hiding something. That she was in trouble and needed help. But he’d never expected this.
He stared at the crude lettering, his mind reeling, his heart breaking for her. Simultaneously something primal and male stirred violently inside him at the thought of someone hurting her.
He found her sitting at the bar with her face in her hands. She looked small and vulnerable and somehow broken. The urge to go to her, draw her into his arms, and tell her he was going to make everything all right was strong. But Frank was fresh out of promises. He knew firsthand that sometimes bad things happened to good people. He knew that sometimes the best they could hope for was that they could learn to live with it.
“How many letters have you received?” he asked.
For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she raised her head. Her spine stiffened, and she looked at him with a directness that had him admiring her strength when he knew her reserves had long since worn thin.
“That one makes two,” she said.
“I need to see the first one.”
Her eyes skittered away.
He waited.
After a moment she slid from the stool and left the kitchen. He wanted to follow her, but sensed her need for space and so he gave it to her. She crossed through the living room and into the den. A moment later she reappeared with a small plastic storage container in her hand.
She set it on the bar and removed the lid. Inside, Frank saw a legal pad where she’d jotted notes. A folded piece of paper. A blue bandanna.
“I received the first phone call on January twenty-seventh.”
“How many calls have you received?”
“Three.” She picked up the legal pad. “I started a time line and documented everything.”
“Good job.”
Her smile was wry. “You can take the lawyer out of the courtroom, but you can’t take the lawyer out of the girl.”
Frank smiled, but it felt uncomfortable on his face as he reached for the pad. Her handwriting was neat and precise. She’d used black pen with a fine tip. She’d logged dates and times and used quotation marks to indicate what the caller had said. “Have you handled these items much?” he asked. “We might be able to raise some latents.”
“I don’t want the police involved.”
“You can’t handle this on your own.”
“I mean it, Frank. I don’t want this made public.”
“Kate, how many times have you seen people refuse to ask for help when they should have? How many times have you seen the results?”
“I know how things work,” she snapped. “But damn it, Frank, we’re talking about . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“We’re talking about your personal safety.”
“We’re talking about a nightmare I don’t want dredged up, damn it!”
Frank understood, as much as he could, anyway. He sympathized. But there was no way he was going to be able to honor her request to keep this quiet and still keep her safe.
Needing time to decide how to proceed, he looked down at the notebook. “It says here that you received the second note the same night you made the 911 call.”
“The stalker left the note in the fuse box in the garage.”
“You didn’t tell the police?”
“I didn’t want anyone to see the note.”
Using the pen to avoid smudging any potential latent prints or DNA evidence, Frank turned over the note and read.
I could have had you tonight the same way I had you eleven years ago. Are you still as sweet as you were when you were seventeen, Katie? Do you smell the same? Would you still cry out in pain? Or have you come to like it? I can’t wait to find out. . . .
Jesus.
Frank looked at the last item in the plastic box. A blue bandanna. The kind he used to put around his neck when he was a kid playing cowboys and Indians. But the bandanna looked somehow ominous lying in that box. Knowing what had happened to Kate, he didn’t want to ask about its significance. He knew he wasn’t going to like the answer he got.
“What about the bandanna?”
When she didn’t answer, he looked at her and was taken aback by the paleness of her complexion. He’d seen corpses with more color. She was staring at the bandanna. He was standing a couple of feet from her, but it was close enough for him to see that she was shaking. That her lips were dry. Her eyes liquid. And it was suddenly painfully clear that she was holding it together by a tattered thread.
“I can’t talk about this.” Abruptly she reached for the storage container and snapped on the lid, as if closing the box
would keep the items inside from hurting her.
“Kate . . .”
Before he could finish, she turned and walked to the living room. Frank let her go. He would give her a few minutes to pull herself together. But he couldn’t let this go.
He found a glass in the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap, then took it to the living room. Kate was sitting on the sofa with her legs pulled up, hugging a pillow to her, the way a frightened child might hold a favorite stuffed animal.
Without speaking he handed her the glass of water. “This isn’t going to go away,” he said. “We’ve got to deal with it.”
Her eyes were dark and knowing and filled with dread when she took it. “I hate this.”
“So do I.” Grimacing, he took the chair across from the sofa. “Kate, you need to talk to me. Tell me everything that’s happened.”
When she said nothing, he sighed. “How am I supposed to help you if you won’t talk to me?”
Lowering her head, she pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.
“Kate, you’re a prosecutor. You’ve spent the last two years putting some very bad people in prison. You know what guys like that are capable of.”
She raised her head and glared at him. “This has nothing to do with my job.”
“How can you be sure? Maybe that’s what he wants you to think.”
“Read the note. This is about . . . the past.”
Frank waited, but his patience was stretched taut. After a moment, he said, “I know what happened eleven years ago.”
Myriad emotions flashed in her eyes in an instant. Anger. Pain. Outrage. Shame. But it was shock that stood in the forefront. Her neck and shoulders went rigid. Her hands curled into the pillow. Her nostrils flared, an animal scenting danger. “You can’t.”
The sharp pang of sympathy went all the way to his bones. “I do,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“How did you find out?”