by Karr, Kim
My father, the well-respected General. He demanded of his family what he expected from his men—order, discipline, and obedience.
He was vile.
Evil.
Sick.
A sex addict and a control freak.
And my mother was no match for him.
Sweat covered me as I fought to block the memories, but they wouldn’t stop assaulting me.
Lizzy and I were asleep in our room.
We were in England and I was almost eight.
That day we’d run through the meadow near our house and picked hundreds of dandelions. My mother wasn’t feeling well and we’d brought them to her. We’d also put some in vases in our room and in the kitchen, too.
My mother had a small baby bump; she always seemed to have one, but it never got much bigger than it was at that time. Her diabetes seemed to hinder each pregnancy that came after my birth.
I heard the front door open and the sound of my father’s boots. “Susan!” he bellowed. He was used to my mother waiting up for him. She never went to bed without him.
My mother called to him. “I’m in our bedroom, Henry.”
His footfalls echoed down the hall. “You went to bed?” he sneered.
The bed squeaked. My mother sitting up, I assumed. “I’m sorry. I was really tired. I left your dinner on the stove.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
Everything was quiet for a bit and then I heard our door lock. I knew what that meant and anger welled deep within me. I ran to it and turned the knob. “Daddy?” I called.
A minute later I heard my father. “You went to bed without me,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t a question.
My mother answered, “Henry, I’m sorry.”
My father was eerily silent.
“Daddy?” I called again.
Lizzy grabbed me and covered my mouth. “Gabby, you have to be quiet or he’ll use the belt again. You know the rules. Go to bed and don’t bother him and Mommy.”
I glared at her, but her eyes were squeezed shut. She was doing what she always did—blocking it out. I didn’t care how many times he told me I was misbehaving for screaming out in the middle of the night or for pounding on the door, feigning I had to use the bathroom. There were times I just couldn’t take it.
“Henry, please, not tonight,” my mother begged.
It sounded so familiar.
My father said nothing, but soon we heard the familiar thump. It seemed to go on for hours that night. I couldn’t stop crying. I cried a tear for every one that my mother shed.
I hated him.
After a long while, Lizzy opened her eyes. She grabbed one of the vases and opened a window. “Come on, Gabby. Make a wish.”
I walked over to her. “We have to help Mommy.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it will make things worse. All we can do is wish we could.” She handed me the vase she had in her hand. “Here, take one.”
I plucked one of the dandelions from the water.
“Blow. Just blow. It will make everything better,” she whispered.
I knew it wouldn’t.
And it never did make anything better but after that night, every time we were locked in our room, Lizzy would open the window and pretend she was blowing on a dandelion. She was able to escape into another world that way.
I never could.
One after the other, the nightmares of my childhood kept coming. I couldn’t block them out. He was a monster who demanded more of my mother than she could give. I might have been the one who killed her, but he drained the life right out of her.
Finally, I sat up in my bed and turned the light on. My body was covered in a cold sweat and I stripped my damp clothes off.
I hated that feeling of helplessness. How I’d wanted so badly for my mother to stop crying. For my father to stop what he was doing to her. So many nights. So many times my father had locked my sister and me in our room and taken my mother in ways that let him have full control. His driving need sickened me.
Sometimes he was loud, sometimes not. My mother would beg him to be quiet, but it was his house and he’d do as he pleased. And that’s just what he always did. Sometimes it was fast; sometimes it went on for hours. It was always worse after a miscarriage. To this day, I still have no idea how many miscarriages my mother had.
When I was younger, I was terrified of the cries in the night; unlike my sister, I wasn’t able to block them out by pretending to make wishes on dandelions.
As I grew, though, that changed. Anger ate away at me and I found myself spending my time praying I wouldn’t turn out like him. After all, my sister had. And addictive behaviors were hereditary. Funny how I’d worried I’d be a sex addict. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
In fact, it wasn’t until Charlie and I broke apart that I really understood that I could repress desire. That was not healthy either, though. It bred loneliness in a way I hadn’t really noticed until tonight, when Logan had lit me up from the inside and I realized just how alone I was.
Tossing and turning, I knew sleep was impossible, so I got up. Moving around, I felt uneasy and found myself crossing the room. For some reason, I peered out the window.
It was dark, but I swore I saw someone out there.
I squinted.
It wasn’t just someone that I saw.
My mind had to be playing tricks on me.
CHAPTER TEN
LOGAN
Emily.
Dead Emily.
Elle might bear an eerie resemblance to Emily but she was nothing like her. Unlike Emily, I could tell Elle hadn’t been sheltered, coddled, or treated like a princess. She didn’t think she owned the world or that it revolved around her. No. Rather, she wore a protective shell and had a fierceness about her that I knew grew out of need. A need to not only protect her physical well-being but her emotional one as well. She was strong and independent and didn’t seem to rely on anyone except herself. I hoped that continued to hold true, because relying on O’Shea would be a mistake. It wasn’t something I could prove. It was something I felt.
After I left my father’s, I had an overwhelming need to check on her. To make sure she was okay. I just doubted the slashing of her tires was a coincidence. There was something going on, but what, I had no fucking clue.
That was going to change.
The street was void of people as I pulled down it. I was easing by her place and noticed a light was on upstairs. Slowing, I looked around. The glow of that light illuminated a dark figure in the bushes.
I jerked my SUV to the curb and flew out the door. It was darker than fuck. The streetlights didn’t do shit to overpower the gloom of the weather. Whoever it was had already moved around the building before I reached the sidewalk. I was almost certain the perp was unaware of my approach. Quietly, I skimmed along the sidewall, the rain steadily falling and blurring my vision with every passing second. As I blinked the water away, I saw movement. The figure had just rounded the building. I ran and then stopped at the corner to peer around to the back. The perp stood on a small porch, two steps high. He had something in his hand. I pulled out my SIG Sauer and hugged the wall as I quietly crept along the brick. I’d jump him and find out who the hell he was and what he was doing here.
Suddenly, the back porch light flicked on and the door opened.
Elle appeared in the entry.
“Stay inside,” I snapped.
The figure, covered in black from head to toe, jumped down the two steps and took off at a dead run into the small park that butted up to the back of the building.
I tore after him.
“Logan!” Elle screamed.
I turned back, my heart in my throat. “Close and lock the fucking door.”
“No, Logan, don’t. Leave her alone.”
Her?
By the time I turned back, there was no trace of anyone having been there. Bay Village was dense with row
houses, iron gates, and so many alleys. I had no idea where the perp had gone once he’d—she’d?—slipped into the park.
I tucked my SIG back inside the waistband of my jeans. “Fuck.”
Elle stepped outside with a small gun in her hand pointed at me.
“Put that away,” I ordered.
She stared at me. “What are you doing here?”
I stopped at the base of the stairs and surveyed the area one last time. There was nothing but the darkness. “Let’s get inside.”
She steadied her arms and kept her finger on the trigger. “Why did you do that?”
I wanted to get out of the fucking vast space. “Elle, let’s go inside and I’ll explain.”
She was still pointing her .22-caliber at me.
Impatience took over and I mounted the porch stairs.
Her hands started to tremble.
I knew she wasn’t going to shoot me. “Give me the gun, Elle.”
She didn’t move. “No. Tell me what you’re doing here.”
To pacify her, I raised my hands surrender style. “I went to see my pop after I left you and on my way back to my hotel, I found myself needing to make sure you were all right.”
She shook her head. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It was a feeling. But it’s the truth. I was driving by when I saw a light on upstairs and then saw someone near the front door. That’s when I got out of my SUV, but they were already around the building.”
“Why were you after her?”
I looked around again. “Who?”
She moved her shoulders as if the position was uncomfortable. “My sister.”
I gave her a puzzled look. “You think that was your sister?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure.” Her hands were shaking even more now.
Maybe she was nervous, or maybe it was because she was barely dressed and had to be freezing. Maybe it was because I was supposed to believe her sister was in rehab. I didn’t. Still, I played along . . . for now. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” I reached and gently took the small pistol from her hand. “Come on, let’s get inside. We’ll talk there.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to be,” I whispered back.
She was still. I couldn’t tell if she was in shock or if something else was going on in her head.
I opened the screen door and placed my hand on the small of her back. I liked the feeling of it there. I shoved the wayward thought away and focused instead on ushering her inside, on keeping my movements impersonal.
The door opened into the kitchen, which was open to the family room. Once I flicked the light on, I looked at her. She was barely dressed. Impersonal. Keep it impersonal. Don’t worry about how she’s dressed, or not dressed as is the case. I spotted a blanket and made my legs move toward it. Water seeped onto the hardwood floors from my sneakers, and once I’d grabbed the blanket I wrapped it around her. Then I found a towel and cleaned up the water on the floor.
Keep busy.
A to B to C.
I couldn’t let my mind wander.
I had to think with my head, and not the one that was roaring at the close proximity to the unbearably sexy woman beside me.
She seemed to be zoning out as she stared at me.
“How about I make us that coffee?”
She nodded.
Okay.
Pot. On counter. Check.
Water. Sink. Check.
Coffee.
She was watching me. Knew what I needed next. “It’s in the cupboard,” she said, pointing above the pot.
My eyes lingered on her bare legs. They were long and lean.
Coffee. Check. Check. Check.
She sat at the table that divided the kitchen from the living area. She was facing me, but her head was turned toward the door.
The kitchen was somehow new but old-looking at the same time. Obviously it had been recently remodeled with new appliances, but everything else looked old, even the chandelier over the island. The white cabinets and deep-veined marble counters were a stark contrast to the dark floors and redbrick walls. Paintings and photographs of flowers blowing in the wind decorated most of the wall space. They were a mixture of modern and traditional.
I scanned the rest of the area. It was sparsely furnished but looked more than adequate. A single dark gray sofa, white carpet, red pillows, and large wooden tables filled the living room. The open staircase with its Plexiglas guard made it easy to spot the second floor.
I marked the points of entry to the single large room. A door to the south leading to the backyard from the kitchen, a few windows down the east side, a window to the north, and the front door. No other points of entry. Nothing to the west, as another townhome was conveniently located there. If only she didn’t have an end unit. The points of entry would be fewer. I wanted to check upstairs but decided I’d wait a bit.
As I pivoted to see if the coffee was ready, I noticed a door just under the staircase that most likely led to the basement. It had a lock on it but it wasn’t engaged, and as I moved toward the refrigerator, I casually crossed over to the lock and turned it. I eased back and opened the fridge, where I spotted a bottle of creamer. I poured two cups of coffee and brought them, along with the creamer, to the table.
“Sugar?” I asked, like it was my house. Like I knew where it was. Like I was Martha fucking Stewart. I rolled my eyes at what this girl was doing to me.
She shook her head and then covered her face with her hands.
Distress emanated from her. Without a second thought, I sat beside her and pulled her hands away. I couldn’t help but notice how soft her skin was and how much I liked the feel of it. “What’s going on?”
She straightened her shoulders. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out if that was my sister or just my imagination.”
Looking for answers, I asked, “What makes you think it was your sister?”
My father told me Elizabeth O’Shea was MIA. Was the intel wrong?
“Nothing. It’s just . . .” She stopped and rubbed her hands together in a nervous gesture.
“Go ahead. Tell me.”
She shook a little. “I’d been having dreams about her all night when I finally gave up on sleep and decided to get up, I looked out the window, and I swear I saw her. But now that I’ve thought about it, I’m not so sure if it was my sister or my imagination putting her face on whoever it was.”
I pushed her coffee closer to her. Her face was bare of makeup and her hair wild. She looked utterly beautiful and vulnerable at the same time. The vulnerability scared the shit out of me.
Focus.
I had to focus on finding out what I could, in order to keep her safe. “How about we back up. Why would your sister be lurking around your house in the middle of the night?”
With both hands around her cup, she glared at me. “How about you tell me what you and your father have to do with Michael?”
Well, that was an abrupt about-face. I put both elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Elle, I want to help you, but I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me.”
Lifting the cream, she poured some in her cup and handed the bottle to me. “Why should I trust you?”
I tipped the creamer and added a small amount to the jet-black liquid. “Because I’m sitting here. Because I care about what’s going on. Because I want to help.”
“Tell me what you and your father were doing at Michael’s office.”
She was suddenly all business.
Assessing the situation, I leaned back in my chair and stretched my legs as I tried to decide the best way to go about this. I looked at her. At my cup of coffee. And back at her. “My father is legal counsel to a man involved with Michael and he came to brief Michael on a . . . situation.”
Her eyes bore into mine. “You mean the drug issue?”
My nod was hesitant, but enough that she knew the score.
>
Elle drew in a deep breath. “How does a boy from New York get involved in a Boston drug ring?”
“If you’re talking about me, I’m not involved.”
She raised a doubtful brow. “Who is this man who sent your father?”
Hesitation furrowed my brows.
“Tell me.”
“Patrick Flannigan,” I said, not really sure why.
Nothing registered. She didn’t know him.
I sipped my coffee. She really knew very little and that was how it should stay. I felt the need to clarify something. “Elle, there are some things you are better off not knowing.”
She held her hand up. “I’m tired of hearing that. My sister was into something illegal and if dangerous people are involved, I have a right to know.”
Ruffled, I ran a hand through my hair. “You’re right. I don’t disagree. At the same time, I’m here because I want to help you, not hurt you. But you need to let me do that.”
She gave me a slight nod. “Fair enough.”
The blanket had fallen off her shoulders and tiny nipples were protruding through the thin fabric of her top. My cock hardened, and I had to shift in my seat and reset my focus. “So tell me about your sister.”
She pulled the blanket up. “First tell me who you think that was. Were they trying to hurt me?”
With a jerk forward, I had a strange urge to grab her hand. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. And I’m finished with you firing questions at me. I want to be honest with you, but I need you to talk to me first.”
Annoyed, she wouldn’t let up. “I will. After you tell me who you think that was.”
My temper was flaring and I took a moment to calm down. “Straight up?”
She gave me the barest hint of a nod.
Ready or not, it was time to lay it on the line. “Your tire wasn’t just flat, it was slashed. I hate to say this, but I’m almost certain it was deliberate.”
Elle gave me another nod, this one no more certain than the last, and she shivered at the same time. Tough shit—there was no time to sugarcoat the truth, not that I would have done so anyway.
“It just seems way too coincidental that with everything going it was some random perpetrator. Whoever it was must have been here to leave a message.” As soon as I said the words, the knot I felt in my stomach prevented me from forging on. Clint Eastwood sounded great, but in reality the Dirty Harry thing was wearing thin. I didn’t like to see her in this state. She looked way too vulnerable for my liking.
