“But now you’re following in her footsteps, carrying on her legacy.” Camille took on that admiring tone again, and his gut seized. The bruising around her neck had darkened over the past few hours, and her voice was still rough. As far as he could tell, the wound carved into her chest had stopped bleeding, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a chance of infection. Hell, he didn’t deserve her admiration, didn’t deserve her secrets after nearly allowing a killer to take her life tonight. Whoever’d attacked her had almost added her name to the list of victims, and here she was looking up to him as though he was some kind reflection of the shirts he wore. Like he was some kind of damn hero. “Seems like a great way to honor her.”
Sincerity laced every word, and Finn couldn’t help but appreciate her attempt to soothe the hollowness he’d lived with since his mom had taken a bullet. If nearly losing his witness to a possible serial killer was honoring his mother’s memory, then, yeah, he was doing a bang-up job. One thing was for sure—whether the Carver had come to finish what he’d started, or if someone else had taken up the mantle, Finn wouldn’t let the bastard have a second chance at Camille. He set his plate, practically untouched, in the sink and pulled back his shoulders. “You’ve been through a lot. When you’re finished eating, I’ll walk you through how to put a fresh dressing on your wound. Then you should really get some rest.”
“I haven’t been able to rest for over a year knowing I’d have to face Jeff Burnes again at his trial, and now there’s a chance he was the one who almost killed me tonight.” She pushed away her plate and raised her gaze to look at him through long lashes that swept across the tops of her cheeks when she blinked. “Sleep isn’t going to change that.”
Jeff Burnes. Not the Carver. Even after all this time, after what her former fiancé had done to her, Camille still went out of her way to humanize a man who’d taken so many lives. “I should have the preliminary report from the team processing the scene at your house by tomorrow. From there, hopefully we can get a lead on who attacked you and make some progress on getting your life back. Because sooner or later, you know the chocolate company is going to panic and call in a missing persons report on you from the dip in their sales.”
“We can’t let that happen.” Her smile cut through the tension threatening to suffocate him from the inside, and in that moment, Finn understood exactly why the Carver had wanted to keep her for himself.
* * *
THE UNSETTLING FEELING she’d faced when she’d woken alone in an unfamiliar house all those months ago twisted in her gut.
Camille stared at the exposed wiring running the length of the ceiling above the bed. The attack. The safe house. Finn. It hadn’t been a bad dream. Stinging pain demanded her attention as she shifted onto her noninjured side and disposed of the hangover of sleep faster than any amount of coffee could from her system. She hadn’t expected to fall into oblivion at all. Not with a known killer out there, meticulously closing in on his prey. She propped up her elbow on the mattress and caught sight of the end of a sleeping bag peeking out from the hallway.
There was only one way in and out of this safe house, and Finn had put himself directly in the path of whoever dared to come through the front door. A combination of laundry detergent and man billowed from the shirt she wore—his shirt—and she raised the collar up over her mouth and nose to breathe a bit deeper. First resuscitating her, then fighting off her attacker, getting her to safety and making her dinner, and now physically putting himself between her and the threat that was out there, somewhere, in the real world. Was there anything Deputy US Marshal Finnick Reed couldn’t do?
He’d talked of his mother as though she’d been a hero he’d looked up to, until her unexpected death when he was only ten years old, but somehow, he couldn’t see that same dedication in himself. Camille could. Without him, she wouldn’t have made it out of that house alive. Didn’t he realize that? Her fingers automatically went to the sensitive skin of her neck.
“You’re supposed to be asleep.” The rough, sleep-addled filter of his voice slid through her and brushed every cell in her body into awareness. It’d been so long since she’d felt anything but fear, the jolt of concern he’d shown rocketed disquiet through her. Was he like this with everyone on his witness-protection list or did Finn consider her unique situation special? Consider her special? “Nightmares?”
She couldn’t deny the sudden warmth at the thought he’d gone out of his way just for her up to this point, but Camille knew fantasy wouldn’t match up with reality. It never did. The deputy was doing his job. Nothing more. Because when it came right down to it, men like him—heroes—desired a woman as impressive they were. A woman who had her life together, who knew what she wanted and went after it, and wouldn’t hold back her partner. She tried swallowing around the rawness still clinging to the edges of her throat. Once upon a time, Camille might’ve been that woman, then her fiancé had nearly strangled the life from her. “They’re not as bad as they used to be.” The lie slipped past her lips easily enough. She tugged at the damp shirt plastered to her stomach. “Most nights I don’t even sweat through my pajamas. Evidently not tonight.”
“I’ll get you another shirt.” She heard rustling in the dark, then his outline solidified. He’d sat up, the weight of his gaze settling on her sternum as he shoved to his feet. The light from the emergency exit sign cast shadows across his bare back. Ridges and valleys of satisfying muscle bunched and released with his every step toward the bathroom, and the tips of her fingers tingled to test their strength. “I’ll grab another bandage, too. Have to make sure your wound stays dry. Less chance of infection.”
The door swung closed behind him, breaking the inexplicable paralysis running down her body. She’d be in denial if she told herself he wasn’t attractive. She’d met plenty of good-looking men in her life while she’d traveled the world, but if she was being honest with herself, she’d never felt like this. Camille had never felt as cared for as she did right now. Safe. Not even in all those years she’d been with the man who’d tried to kill her.
Now she knew why.
“Lucky for you, I have an endless supply of T-shirts I never throw away.” Finn wrenched open the bathroom door and flipped on the overhead light. Dressed in nothing but a light gray pair of sweats, he tossed a fresh shirt onto the bed for her. His bare feet padded across the tiles as he peeled an edge of white medical tape from the roll and tucked it underneath itself, and she couldn’t help but smile at the glimpse of the relaxed, off-the-clock deputy who’d saved her life. The military and the marshals service had forged him into a masterpiece, one worth photographing for prosperity. He turned those blue eyes on her, and her heart hiked into her sore throat. After setting the new supplies on the bed beside her, he straightened, taking the tendrils of heat snaking through her with him. “You changed out the last dressing just fine. I assume you don’t have a problem doing it yourself again.”
Right. The bandage. Flashes of the destruction carved into her chest in the mirror’s reflection arced to the front of her mind, and Camille fisted her hands in the extra shirt fabric around her middle. The nurse in the emergency room had applied a special invisible type of glue into the lacerations and closed the edges with Steri-Strips, but the letters still burned fresh. No amount of cleaning, hot water or fresh dressings would change what had been done to her, and the finality of that realization—that the Carver had returned to claim his prize—had ripped away her strength to face the result of her attack again. Shame churned hot in her gut, and she cast her attention to the supplies on the bed. “I didn’t put a new one on. I couldn’t...I couldn’t force myself to see what he’d done.”
“Oh.” Finn lowered himself down onto the edge of the bed, and her center of gravity was thrown with the addition of his weight. And not just physically. Emotionally. Mentally. “That’s okay. The shirt is clean and tap water is completely safe for keeping it sterile. If you don’t want the d
ressing, you can watch out for signs of infection. Redness, swelling, pain and fever.”
With the space he kept between them, it was more obvious to her in that moment that the past few hours had ripped away any kind of progress she’d made over the last year and had exposed the truth she’d tried to hide from herself and everyone around her: she didn’t want to be alone. Didn’t want what’d happened to define her for the rest of her life. Didn’t want Finn to keep his distance. She’d spent the past year hiding in that house, too scared to face the world after Jeff Burnes had shattered it right in front of her, but she couldn’t live like this forever. Always looking over her shoulder, never building any deep, meaningful connections and holding herself so tight it hurt. Her gaze lifted to the camera bag Finn had set on the kitchen counter. She couldn’t have been put on this earth just to be scared. “What if I want to cover it up so I don’t have to see what he carved into me?”
Finn leaned back, the medical supplies in his hand. Two notches deepened between his eyebrows, and his mouth softened at the edges. “I can help you with that.”
“Okay.” Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure why she’d agreed so suddenly, apart from the fact he’d spent the past few hours of his life in service of her, and that something deep inside her trusted he wouldn’t hurt her. Not intentionally.
“But I’m going to need you to promise that if you change your mind, you’ll tell me. Anything you’re not comfortable with, we stop,” he said. “Agreed?”
Lungs on fire, she nodded. She didn’t have the guts to look at the lacerations carved into her chest herself. This was the only way she could be sure she didn’t have to constantly be reminded of that blade cutting into her and keep the wound clean at the same time. “Agreed.”
“Okay.” Finn shifted closer along the edge of the bed, slowly, carefully, as though he was approaching a feral animal, and her chest constricted. She didn’t blame him. Not after she’d nearly put a Camille-shaped hole in the wall when he’d reached for her before, but her nerves had settled a bit more since then. Because of him. “I need a clear look at the wound to make sure there isn’t anything sticking to the edges that will cause an infection.”
Which meant he needed the shirt out of the way. Her body grew heavy. This wasn’t about intimacy. She knew that. Finn was medically trained and was probably about as curious about her body as a gynecologist that routinely examined his patients. But the thought of him seeing exactly how much damage had been done swirled nausea in her stomach. She closed her eyes to breathe through the onslaught of self-consciousness.
“Camille, look at me. You don’t have to do this. We can stop right now.” Finn waited until she lifted her gaze to his, and her heart jerked behind her rib cage. The last man who’d touched her hadn’t waited, and the simple consideration of consent was almost enough to break her completely.
“Yes, I do.” Because she wasn’t going to let her attacker win. The Carver had already taken too much. He didn’t deserve her fear. She hooked her fingers beneath the collar of the shirt she’d borrowed from him and tugged it low, exposing the raw, sensitive skin where a killer had made his mark.
Finn’s attention locked onto the carnage, his bottom lip parting slightly from the top one, but overall, he managed to keep his expression neutral as he tore a piece of tape from the roll in his hand. “From the look of the scarring, I’d say the first two letters were carved that night a year ago?”
“Yes.” She kept her gaze on him, memorizing every detail, every change in his expression. Counting four shallow lines stretched across his forehead as he focused on her injury, she visually followed the trail to perfectly sculpted eyebrows and sideburns that grew down into a full-faced beard as a distraction from gut-wrenching exposure. She hadn’t shown her scars to anyone after the night of their birth, not even the therapist she’d started seeing after she’d been relocated to Florence.
“The other two were from tonight.” Not a question. “Were you conscious during...?”
“I pretended to be unconscious the first time. At least until I couldn’t take the pain anymore. I think that’s what surprised him the most. Jeff—the Carver—thought I was dead, that I wasn’t a threat.” Camille smoothed her damp palms down her thighs as the memories threatened to break free of the box she’d buried them in at the back of her mind. “He didn’t plan on me fighting back.”
Chapter Four
His knuckles brushed against smooth skin, but not even the fact Camille had given him permission to get this close chased back the rage spiking his body temperature higher. Finn forced himself to focus on centering a fresh piece of gauze over her wounds. It was all he could do to stop himself from calling another deputy to guard her while he joined the hunt for the bastard who’d tried to claim her as his own, who’d inflicted so much pain and misery.
Mine.
The word seemed to burn through the cotton and deep into his bones.
He’d gone over the crime-scene reports a dozen times in the past year, reviewed the photos and statements collected in the days following the attack. He’d studied the logistics of the investigation in Chicago to prepare himself for any possible scenario when she’d transferred into his protection detail, but he hadn’t known the depth of her fearlessness. Until now. “I can’t imagine how much strength it would’ve taken for you to stay still while he...cut into you.”
Her chest rose on a strong inhale under his hands. A laugh escaped her lips, and he couldn’t help but memorize the sound. He’d never heard her laugh before. “I’m not sure you could call what I did strength or paralysis. Either way, it gave me enough time to come up with a plan. Jeff was so focused on what he was doing...” Muscles shifted beneath the deep purple-and-blue bruising around her delicate throat, and it took everything in him not to trace the patterns with his thumb to test the sensitivity. “He didn’t notice that my silverware had fallen to the floor when he’d lunged across the dining-room table for me. Once I had a steak knife in my hand, I knew the only way I was going to get out of there alive was to make sure he couldn’t come after me again. So I did what I had to do.”
According to the arrest reports, she’d done a hell of a job, too. Jeff Burnes—the Carver—had to be carried out of that small Chicago apartment on a stretcher from losing too much blood. Lacerated liver, punctured lung and a right kidney that couldn’t be saved in surgery. The SOB was lucky he hadn’t died that night.
Camille studied her hands in her lap as he secured the last piece of tape between her shoulder and sternum. “We were supposed to be celebrating Valentine’s Day. Instead, I found out the man I’d planned on marrying wasn’t who I thought he was.”
“You lived with Jeff Burnes for years. Loved him.” Those two words endangered his ability to keep up with this line of questioning, but he had to know. From the long list of women thought to be victims of the Carver over the past two years, the FBI’s psychological profile theorized Jeff Burnes targeted single young women in their late twenties, sometimes early thirties, who were at the top of their career fields. A software developer, a chemist, a fashion designer, a general contractor. And the photographer sitting in front of him. There hadn’t been any connection between the victims as far as the feds had been able to prove. No motive other than the sick urge to take something so beautiful and wipe it from existence. Finn leaned back, his fingertips holding the memory of how soft her skin had been to his touch. “The psychologists who’ve interviewed him reported he isn’t emotionally capable of developing any real relationships, that his sociopathic tendencies make it impossible for him to feel love for someone else or even guilt for what he’s done. Why do you think he made an effort to get so close to you? What did he want from you?”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that appearances can be deceiving.” Her eyes raised to his, and suddenly, with the intensity in her expression, Finn couldn’t remember how to breath
e. “Your psychologists, the profilers, are wrong. I wish I could tell you he ticked off all the boxes of symptoms expected for sociopathic behavior while we were together, that I knew exactly what he was capable of before he attacked me that night, but I can’t. He’s too smart for that. Too careful.”
Confusion seeped past the invisible barrier of confidence he’d built during his time with the marshals service. “What do you mean?”
“The agents who questioned me after the attack accused me of being an accessory in Jeff Burnes’s crimes, of trying to cover up what he’d done because they believed I was his partner. They tried to use the memory card Jeff had planted in my camera and the fact I was the only survivor of the Carver as proof, but his fingerprints were the only ones on the card.” Her knuckles fought to break through the cracked skin along the backs of her hands as she released the collar of the shirt she wore. “They couldn’t understand how I hadn’t noticed something off or wrong about my fiancé in all the time we were together, but the truth is, Jeff is very good at what he does.”
He’d learned about the FBI’s line of questioning back in Chicago when he’d first taken on her case, but even then, Finn had known they were way off base. Not a single cell in this woman’s body could hurt someone. Not knowingly. “What’s that?”
Other than leaving a trail of bodies wherever the bastard went.
“Manipulation. It wasn’t enough for him to kill me as fast as possible. Over the past year, I realized I was something to be used, to be studied. I was nothing more to him than a toy he could disassemble and see how all my parts worked inside. He made sure to get close to me, to steer me toward relying on him, and then he learned how and when to hurt me so it’d have the most impact.” Camille’s tone went flat. “I don’t think I was the only one. Everything Jeff Burnes has revealed to police, the FBI or your psychologists, everything he’s done while he’s been under surveillance in prison, is to make them believe what he wants them to believe. He wants them to think he’s a sociopath because that would fit into something they’re familiar with, but the truth is he’s far more dangerous than you realize. He’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants. Me.”
The Witness Page 4
