Detective Rodriguez stepped forward. “It would appear your son has been engaging in a bit of extra-curricular hacking, Mr. Livermore. He’s been doing research for the subject of a manhunt, who’s been searching for the woman in that photo. When we’re done with your son, we’ll hand him over to the Feds.” Rodriguez looked down at Randall. “Hacking is a federal crime. You did realize that, didn’t you? Please stand up.” Rodriguez pulled out his cuffs. “Randall Livermore, you have the right to remain silent.”
Chicago
Saturday, March 17
9:30 A.M.
“Max, stop it,” Caroline muttered, swatting his hand away while trying to get her key in the lock on her front door. “Anybody could come by.”
He moved his hand back under her sweater, unperturbed. “No, they won’t. Mrs. Polasky’s in Daytona, remember? And Mr. Adelman’s still trying to cough up his dentures after you surprised him by coming in this morning wearing the same thing you had on last night. You must not stay out all night very often,” he added lightly, but she could hear an undertone of serious question.
She turned to face him, leaning up on her toes to place a kiss on the side of his throat. “You’re the first.” The fierce hug he gave her confirmed she’d been right. This tall, dark and gorgeous man was also vulnerable. “Now I’ve got to go change my clothes or you’ll be late meeting Frank.”
“It’s your fault that we’re late,” Max remarked blandly just as she got the key in the lock.
She glared at him over her shoulder. “My fault?”
“Your fault.”
She opened the door, walked in and dropped her purse on the sofa. “How is it my fault? You started it. Just once more, you said. It’ll only take a few minutes, you said.”
His smile was only slightly superior. “You weren’t complaining.”
Caroline grinned and shrugged out of her coat. “No, I guess I wasn’t.” Understatement of the day. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She jogged back to her bedroom and simultaneously kicked off her shoes and pulled her sweater over her head when she crossed over the threshold.
She pulled on clean clothes and then stood at her dresser, staring at herself in the mirror. The woman who looked back was a joyful stranger, her eyes bright, her countenance … glowing. Dana had told her it would be like this. The night before had been the most incredible experience of her life. And now she knew one night with Max Hunter would never be enough. She wanted it all over again. The intense pleasure of making love with him, to him. Hearing that guttural moan when he climaxed. But even more she wanted the sweet completion of lying in his arms, listening to his even breathing as he slept.
Inevitably he’d asked her to stay again tonight. She wanted to. She looked at herself in the mirror, biting her lower lip. She really, really wanted to.
But was she that kind of woman?
Caroline let out a shaky sigh remembering every time he’d made her feel like she was flying. Like she was reborn. What kind of woman am I? she asked herself, pulling her brush through her hair. The answer came quickly, bringing with it the heat of remembrance of each touch, each thrust of his body. She was the kind of woman who’d enjoyed every minute in her lover’s arms. So would she stay with him tonight? When all was said and done, her answer would be yes. So should she just pack an overnight bag and be done with the decision already? Conscience nagged for a moment. Packing a bag made it seem more deliberate somehow. She pursed her lips. It would also allow her to be able to brush her teeth in the morning.
And being a practical woman, that argument was the clincher. Quickly she gathered her clothes then turned to set them on the bed while she looked for an overnight bag. She then froze, a scream held hostage in her throat.
The clothes in her hands fluttered to the carpet as she stood, transfixed at the sight.
Carried back in time.
Her kitchen. They’d been in her kitchen. She’d been so exhausted, dragging herself up the porch steps behind her walker. She hated that thing. She hated Rob for not helping her up the steps. But she’d managed on her own, and panting, stood inside the kitchen staring down at the old linoleum, trying to control the frantic knocking of her heart before she passed out. “Bring in your mamma’s bag, son,” he’d said, his tone ominously quiet, and quailing, Robbie had obeyed. She’d felt nauseous, wondering what the sick bastard had done to her son when she’d been in the hospital, unable to protect him.
Rob pulled her St. Rita statue from the bag the nurses had packed for her. They’d been so kind, the nurses. Especially the two who understood. The efficient Nurse Desmond and the younger, more emotional Susan Crenshaw. The St. Rita had been a gift from Susan. But he’d hated the statue, just like he hated her and anyone who showed her the smallest consideration. She’d expected it, braced herself for it, but still lunged at the statue as he held it above her head. He’d laughed, brutally, and brought her treasure down on the linoleum so hard that it shattered. It was more than a statue. It had been the physical embodiment of a dream.
The dream that now lay in pieces on the floor.
Caroline knelt on her bedroom carpet, picking up the pieces, turning them over and over.
“Caroline, what’s taking you so long?” Max asked behind her. She didn’t move a muscle.
It was impossible. It simply couldn’t be. Panic seized her in a vise, squeezing the air from her lungs. Please, God, no. The pleas rolled in her head, echoing. Don’t let it be like before. Don’t let it be him.
As Max stood watching her, he could feel the tension in her body, in every stiff line of her back as she knelt on the floor, hunched over. “Caroline, what’s wrong?” When she didn’t say a word, he felt her fear rise around him and he dropped to one knee beside her. On the carpet before her lay a dozen pieces of broken pottery. Gingerly he picked one up and saw the image of a male face, his countenance carefully composed in prayer. Another fragment proved to be his folded hands.
One look at Caroline’s face told him this was not a minor loss. Her expression was almost haunted, panic emanating from her eyes. In her hand she clutched one of the fragments so hard a little stream of blood oozed from where it had cut her hand, but she didn’t even seem to notice. Gently he took the fragment from her hand and grimacing, pulled himself to his feet to get a wet cloth from the bathroom for her hand. When he returned, she was still frozen in the same position, her hand open, blood dripping.
Fighting his own fear, Max grasped her shoulders and lifted her to her feet. She came easily, as if she were a posable doll. He gently pushed her down to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Caroline,” he urged, washing her hand. He shook her shoulder a little harder than he normally might. “Caroline, snap out of it.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face and she blinked. She didn’t jerk to awareness as he’d hoped, but lifted her panicked eyes to him in slow motion.
“He broke it,” she whispered.
“Who broke it?” he asked, wiping the dried blood from around the cut.
“Oh, God.” It was a faraway cry, keening and desperate.
Holding his own fear in careful check, Max got up to get another wet cloth, this time covering her face with it, pressing it so that the cold water dripped down her neck and throat. It was a modified version of a pitcher of water in her face and brought the knee-jerk reaction he’d been waiting for.
“Caroline.” He tilted her face up, checking her eyes. “Where were you?”
She closed her eyes and swallowed, clearly distressed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Tell me what happened.”
“I … It’s stupid. It must be stupid.” She sounded like she was convincing herself.
A movement caught his eye and Max whipped around to the source, his defenses immediately ready. He let out the breath he’d sucked in as the big orange cat leapt to the bed and sauntered across, sitting on Caroline’s pillow as if he owned the place. Max rolled his eyes, embarrassed that her fear was causing him to expect mon
sters to leap from closets.
He lowered himself to sit next to her. “It was your cat, honey,” he said softly and she looked over at the orange mutt, her expression a riot of emotions. “He must have knocked the statue off your nightstand. It’s okay, really.”
She relaxed, slightly. “You’re right. How silly of me.”
But when she tried to get up, Max pressed her back down. “Wait. I want to know what made you practically go in a trance.” He gently squeezed her thigh. “I want the truth, Caroline.”
Her face went pale as a ghost. Then she laughed, a little hysterically and he felt a coldness wash over him. “I don’t know if I remember what the truth is anymore,” she said cryptically.
Max folded his arms across his chest, trying to warm himself. “Try.”
She glanced up at him, then licked her lips nervously. “I had a statue like this. A long time ago. It was … important to me.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift.”
“Someone special gave it to you?”
She nodded, her eyes closing. “A young woman who was my friend for a short time.”
He had the suspicion that he would have to pull every detail from the depths of her memory. “Where did you know her from?”
Her eyes opened and in them he saw a different fear. Not far away and buried. This was recent. This was now. Max felt his stomach clench, afraid to ask why she was still afraid. Afraid he would not want to know the answer.
She licked her lips again. “I, um, I told you once that I’d hurt my back.”
Max nodded. “And once you said you’d spent a lot of time in hospitals.” Something flickered wildly in her eyes at that statement. “How did you hurt your back, Caroline?”
“I, um, I, uh … I fell down some stairs.”
She’d told him that once before. And he’d believed her then. He didn’t believe her now.
Dread settled over him, heavy and terrible. He was missing something. Something critical. He closed his eyes, mentally reviewing every stored memory, then remembering the way she’d wrenched backwards to avoid being touched that day he’d come across her unpacking that box in his office. She’d been afraid of him then. The pieces began to fit.
It didn’t hurt. He heard her whisper from the night before echo through his mind. He’d asked who hurt her. He’d meant … emotionally.
She hadn’t. Oh, God. She hadn’t.
No. His stomach violently churned. He had to swallow to keep from becoming ill, right there and then. But he’d asked for the truth.
He opened his eyes, finding hers fixed on his face, still afraid.
And in her eyes he saw the truth no man could accept.
She dropped her eyes and looked away.
“When?” he asked, his voice ragged.
“When did I fall down the stairs?”
Max lurched to his feet, angry. Furious. “You fell? Did you walk into doors, too, Caroline?”
She winced at his tone and his condemnation and he felt the fury change to shame in a wave that nearly knocked him over. He sunk back down on the bed and dropped his face into his hands. “I’m … sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
Her hand came to rest on his knee. “I know.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”
She sighed. “It was a long time ago, Max.”
“How long?”
“Nine years. Give or take.”
Max pulled his hands down his face. “What happened?”
“He was angry. He pushed me. I fell—” She stopped herself. “I ended up at the bottom of the cellar stairs.”
“With a broken back.”
“Yes.”
He leaned over and picked up a fragment of the statue. “And this?”
Caroline sighed again. “I met a wonderful young woman in the hospital. She was a volunteer that summer. We became friends. I’d never had a friend before. Not in my whole life,” she qualified, her voice wistful. “She knew. Somehow she knew what had happened to me.”
“And?”
“And … she gave me the statue as a … I don’t know. She meant it as a symbol of friendship. To me it became far more. The day I came home from the hospital he … broke her. My statue.”
“On purpose? Why?”
She shrugged. “It represented kindness. He hated anything that represented kindness, to me anyway. So when I came here, I bought myself another one.” She picked up the piece that was the man’s head. “St. Joseph. The patron saint of social reform.”
He looked down at her face, partially hidden by the fall of her hair as she bowed her head over the face of St. Joseph she held cradled in her hand. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel. “So that’s why you chose to go to law school. Your own social reform.”
“Yes.”
They sat in silence as the minutes ticked by. He was … numb. Unable to grasp the reality he’d heard from her own lips. Later he’d be angry. Later he’d fight the urge to find the bastard who raised his hand to her and he’d kill him with his own hands. Later he’d hold her and cherish her and tell her it would be all right. But for now … He was simply numb.
“We need to be going, Max,” she said quietly. “Frank is depending on you.”
He turned to stare at her, unbelieving. “You expect me to … after … after …” He gave up and looked at her helplessly.
Caroline met his eyes with unflinching challenge. “I do. Every day of my life.”
Max swallowed. He looked down at the floor where some of her clothes lay in a pile. “What are those for?”
“I was planning to pack a bag so I could stay with you tonight.” She paused, then cleared her throat. “Should I put them away?”
Max let his head drop backward, and he stared straight up at the ceiling. His throat was so tight he thought he might never draw an easy breath again. “Do you think,” he asked, his voice breaking and not giving a damn, “that it matters?”
“Doesn’t it?”
He blinked and the ceiling came back into clear focus. “Of course it matters.” He brought his gaze back down to meet hers. “It matters because it happened to you. It matters because I love you. It matters, Caroline. You matter. You matter to me.” He watched her eyes fill with tears and felt anguish stab at his heart to think that she thought he might walk away. He bracketed her jaws with hands that trembled. He ran his fingers up into her hair, cradling her head as he’d done during their lovemaking the night before. “I love you.”
She turned her cheek into his palm, her body sagging in relief. “Then let’s go. You’ve got a bunch of starstruck kids waiting to drool puddles on their Nikes.” She stood up and gathered her dropped clothes from the floor.
“Caroline?”
She stopped, holding the clothes to her chest. “Yes?”
“Later, when we’re done at this thing for Frank? I want to go back to my house and hear the whole story.”
She fumbled with the clothes. “Why?”
Max stood and put his hands on her shoulders. He bent over and kissed her neck through her sweater. “Because I need to understand.” He tipped up her chin and gently kissed her mouth. “Because you matter to me.”
Chicago
Saturday, March 17
10:30 P.M.
“Can’t you stay a little longer?”
Winters paused from buttoning his cuffs to look down at the young body in the bed. He drudged up a winning smile. “Sorry, sweetheart. I have to work today. I’m already late for a toilet snake and a hot water heater installation.” In reality he was furious with himself. He should have been at Mary Grace’s apartment hours ago. He never, ever over-slept. It must have been all the stress adding up.
Evie pulled the sheet up to cover herself and sat up in the bed. She rubbed her temples. “I have one awful headache.”
He was surprised she wasn’t in the hospital. The girl could really put it away. “Try a few aspirin.”
She nodded weari
ly. “Sounds like a plan. I don’t want to be hungover when Dana gets home.”
Winters’s hands stopped abruptly. Recovering quickly, he slipped the last button through the hole. “Dana?”
Evie pressed her fingertips into her eye sockets. “Dana Dupinsky. She’s my roommate. She and Caroline are best friends. Dana’s working nights this weekend. She’d be truly pissed to find me hungover with a man in my bed. I’ve got”—she squinted at the clock—“about a half hour to get myself together.”
So Dana Dupinsky was her roommate. It truly was a small, small world. Perhaps he’d get a chance to extend his personal thanks to Ms. Dupinsky after all.
“So, what are you doing tonight, Evie?”
She looked up, her eyes bloodshot. “I don’t know. You want to do something?”
Winters tucked his shirt into his pants. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Chapter Eighteen
Raleigh, North Carolina
Saturday, March 17
2:45 P.M.
Steven’s cell phone jangled just as he pulled his car into his driveway. “Thatcher.”
“Steven, it’s Toni.” She was breathless. “I just got your page. What do you have?”
“Where are you, Toni?” he asked, getting out of his car.
“Just got back from my run. Did you have any luck with Livermore?”
Steven pulled his briefcase from the backseat. “No,” he answered with a grimace. “Rodriguez had to give it up when Livermore’s attorney shut down the interview. We didn’t even chip through the surface. Livermore’s one cold SOB. He didn’t give a damn about any of those women or why Winters wanted them. It was a job, nothing more.”
“You order a psych profile?” Toni asked, her breathing calmer.
“The DA’s office will. Dime to dollar they rule him a sociopath. No conscience whatsoever.” Steven slammed his car door a good deal harder than he needed to. “Those guys give me the chills. Hey, Cindy Lou,” he added, patting the shaggy head of the Thatcher family sheepdog.
“Who’s Cindy Lou?” Ross asked, mild amusement in her voice.