I’m in his bedroom in the cabin behind Brian and Elaine’s house.
“What happened?” I ask again as he returns with a glass of what looks like apple juice and a tray of cheese and crackers. Hunger takes over and I eat two pieces of cheese and drink half the juice. It tastes divine.
“Go slow there, sweetie,” he says, voice filled with concern. “You haven’t eaten all day and you’re injured.”
Sweetie. That was his pet name for me years ago. One of the rescue dogs at the shelter had been named Sweetie. A big old bull mastiff. Mark had found that contradiction hilarious, and started calling me “sweetie.”
The term of endearment throws me off. I’m already unstable. Unsteady. Confused and unsure.
Adding “sweetie” to the mix isn’t helping.
“Quit stalling and quit calling me sweetie,” I bark. “Why did you attack me like that?”
He sighs. “I didn’t attack you.”
I try to arch an eyebrow but it hurts too much. Pain radiates out from my head.
“Are we going to argue, or are you going to explain before I go to the police chief and tell him you know who has Amy and were on the phone with some guy today about it, telling him to hide her?”
Mark pinches he bridge of his nose like he’s in pain.
“That’s not what’s going on here, Carrie.”
I pop a piece of cheese in my mouth and chew. I just stare at him. I pretend my mouth doesn’t hurt.
His phone buzzes. Then a second phone buzzes. He pulls both out and reads their screens.
“Two phones? What?” I ask, frowning. I stop mid-frown as I feel little cuts on my face open up.
He holds up one finger. “I’ll explain in a minute. Eat.” He says it like it’s an order.
I drop the food right then and there. He can’t tell me what to do. I may be injured (his fault) and half out of it (ditto), and I might even be in danger and maybe—just maybe—he was protecting me, but…
He can’t tell me what to do.
Mark walks out of the room. I watch him get swallowed by the dark hall, his ass cradled by jeans that wrap around him like they’re clinging for dear life. He’s so tall and strong, his shoulders hunched with concentration, the pale tan weave of his t-shirt stretched tight. His shoulder blades are surrounded by strong muscle leading across a cobra back, his biceps bulging against his shirt sleeves.
He’s grunting into the phone, clearly trying to answer with as few words as possible.
Is that because I’m here? What’s he hiding? I reach for the apple juice and drink the rest, trying to make sense of all this.
Here’s what I know: at Minnie’s house he was on the phone talking about someone named Allie who looks like the kidnapped girls. Said this was like “a brew home.” Said so many confusing things.
I need to get out of here.
Sliding my legs down off the edge of the bed, I turn my ear toward the door. My knee practically groans as I bend it.
Mark’s muted voice is far away. He’s in the tiny cabin, but I can probably slip out and be in my trailer before he can catch me. He’s distracted. I need to go somewhere and hide from the world. Elaine must be wondering where I am. I disappeared from work, no-showed at Minnie’s, and now Mark’s twisting everything I know into a pretzel.
I did not come back to town so I could become more confused about my life.
I make it through the kitchen to the back door, barefoot and limping. As I turn the cold metal doorknob with my scratched hand, the sound of breathing fills my ear. Then my entire back alights as if someone struck it with a match.
All the heat is pouring off Mark’s chest as he reaches from behind and stops my hand.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, his voice deep and alluring.
“Home.”
“Not safe.”
I start to snort, then stop myself. I don’t need more bleeding. “Like you’re safe? Give me a break.” I reach up and gingerly touch my bruised face.
I can feel his shoulders slump. He’s that close. He swallows. The click in his throat is audible.
“I deserve that,” he mumbles, pulling away. He holds his hands up, palms forward. I see them in my peripheral vision as he takes a step back. My eyes are fixed on the little window in the kitchen door. I take one breath at a time. Exhale. Shift my weight from one hip to the other.
“Go,” he says in a neutral voice. I can hear him holding back so much more. The million questions in my mind begin to swirl, starting with the first one.
The three-year-old question.
I whirl around and look up. I need to if I want to see his eyes.
“Why did you turn my father in?”
His eyes shift suddenly, as if he’s recalling a memory. I’m breathing hard. The edges of every wound on my wrist, my knees, my mouth feel like jagged glass dusted with saltwater. I’m tired. I’m drained. It’s been a long three years to carry so much pain around with me.
I literally shrug, like I’m dropping a backpack filled with rocks.
It’s time to let go of so much of my past. Especially the unfinished business between me and Mark.
“I told you, I had to. It was my—”
“JOB!” I scream, the sound welling up from my navel. It’s as if it’s been coiled, like a spring waiting to be sprung. “Your job. You’ve said you were just doing your job, Mark. What the hell is your job, then? To date young women so you can sneak into their lives and hearts and gather fake evidence against a man who was innocent?” My lip splits as I open my mouth wide.
Mark staggers backward two steps, his ass hitting the back of a kitchen chair. He looks like I slapped him.
Good.
“Is it your job to pace around a kidnapping victim’s house and talk about the man you’re pretty sure is doing this, and in the next breath give your fake sympathy to the victim’s mother? Is it your job to grab me in a parking garage and pretend you’re kidnapping me so you can—what? Scare me? Put the fear of God in me? Try to deter me?”
He says nothing.
“Is it your job to fuck Claudia Landau so you can weasel your way into her life, too?”
He flinches but says nothing. I wish he would say something. I’m so cold suddenly. It’s like all my anger has been propping me up. Fueling me. Now that I’m unleashing it that power source is leaving me.
“If that’s all true, Mark,” I spit out, “then you have one hell of an interesting job. Tell me—what exactly do you do for a living?”
With eyes that seem to flash through nineteen emotions at once, he reaches into his back pocket. A flare of panic plumes in my chest. Is it a weapon? Am I wrong, and Mark really is a danger?
He pulls out a wallet.
I make a dismissive noise. “What’s this?”
He opens it. It’s a bifold, and he tosses it on the kitchen table. The dim light gleams on something shiny in it.
“It’s your badge. I get it, Mark.” I feel deflated and livid all at once. I don’t know which feeling to feel, so my nerves seem to feel them all.
“Look at it, Carrie.” His voice doesn’t allow me to disobey.
I limp over to the table and pick it up. My eyes widen impossibly as I realize that’s not a cop badge.
“I’m with the Drug Enforcement Agency, Carrie. I’m a federal agent and I’m deep undercover.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Of all the times for me not to be able to call Amy and tell her this.
“You’re a what?” I gasp.
He looks like he’s vibrating. Mark leans forward and puts his hands on the edge of the kitchen table. His fingertips are white. The cords in the back of his hands stand out. His veins bulge. His chest rises and falls, heavy and hard, his pecs straining against the thin, beige fabric of his shirt as he stares at me.
The look he gives me makes me want to hug him and flee from him at the same time.
“I’m a DEA agent.”
I can’t believe this is happening.
“Since when?” I gasp.
“Since before I met you.”
“What?” My voice rises with shock. What is Mark saying? What does he mean? He’s been a…huh?
“I got back from Afghanistan and my special forces training made me a candidate, so—”
“No.” I laugh, a barking sound that feels unreal. All of this is surreal, so why shouldn’t my laughter join in? This is absurd. “You’re a police officer.”
I knew he’d served in Afghanistan. He’d mentioned it, briefly, with a lot of pain and a brooding look. I’d stopped asking more details. It seemed like an off-limits topic back then.
Now I wish I’d asked more questions.
“I’m afraid yes, Carrie. I’ve never been a true police officer. I mean, I am…I have all the legal clearances and the—never mind.”
I’ve never heard Mark ramble nervously. There’s a cuteness to it, like an awkward teen boy trying to talk to a girl.
Except this isn’t a teen boy. This is the man who got my father arrested, who also knows who stole my best friend, and who is standing before me telling me that everything I knew about him was a lie.
“Our entire relationship was fake,” I whisper.
“God, no,” he hisses, his eyes gleaming in the light as he gives me a savage look. “You were the only real part of my entire life here, Carrie.” The way the light bounces off his face makes me want to weep. His eyes, his skin, the way his jaw muscles fold and grind. The sheer power of his emotions feel like heat waves radiating toward me.
I go numb. My ears ring. My eyes blink over and over. My body feels like it’s hurtling through space and time without any control.
My heart is along for the ride.
I toss his badge on the table. It skitters and slides off the edge, bouncing on his foot. I reach for the doorknob to the kitchen door, shaking so hard my teeth start to chatter. I’m not cold. I open the door and look back at him.
His head is bent down, fingers gone a strange shade of white from gripping the table so hard. His hair is longer than usual and covers his forehead. I can’t see his eyes. His entire body is rigid with tension. Every muscle swells. His arms look like carved wood. If we were in any other situation I’d admire him. Take him in with my eyes.
Devour him.
Right now, though, isn’t that time. It’s like something between us just died. How many lies were in my life that I didn’t know about? How many truths that I believe aren’t really true? How could I give my heart to Mark so long ago only to be brutally betrayed?
“Don’t go,” he says. Begs. Pleads. He doesn’t look up, though. The words are so desperate that he doesn’t have to. I know what I will see in his eyes if he looks at me.
“Give me a reason to stay,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His head pivots up, fast. His eyes gleam in the light.
“I can give you ten thousand reasons, Carrie, if you’re willing to listen.” He lets go of the table and takes two bold steps toward me.
I say nothing. I don’t have to. The power in the room has shifted to me. I have it all. Finally, I’m the one in charge. This is what I’ve craved for years.
The truth. The power to know the truth. And the power to act on that truth.
I just had no idea there was so much truth hiding beneath so many lies.
My breath feels like it’s made of thousands of feathers all floating in my lungs. Time seems to slow down. A light breeze floats past me, prickling my skin, making the hair on my arms rise. I am gooseflesh and instinct. I am nothing but my pulse in my throat, my eyes on Mark’s face, the feel of my blood standing still and rushing at the same time.
I am Carrie.
I am now.
I want to listen to him. I want him to take me in his arms and hold me all night. If Mark could whisper gentle words and strong assurances, I’d listen to him talk forever. He says he has ten thousand reasons why I should stay and listen.
How about he gives me ten thousand more and ten thousand more after that, all the reasons stretching out through the rest of our lifetimes to fill our days and nights with each other?
Am I stupid for wanting him, still? I thought I was the one who snuck away from him. Leaving without a goodbye three years ago felt like I wielded a weapon. I was angry and furious. I felt hurt and bewildered.
Now I know why.
Something deep inside me must have known, even then, that Mark’s actions didn’t add up. He’s standing before me now, offering to tell me everything.
Everything.
“You have to tell me everything,” I hiss. “Every single truth.”
He nods, his eyes flashing with hope. “Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
“Don’t you ever lie to me again.”
Silence. His breath fills the room, like a love song. The air leaves his lungs and travels across the room to fill mine, like a kiss we perform without touching. He keeps looking at me like that. Like a man who can’t live without me. Like this moment in time, frozen, is about to change our destiny.
I wish he’d pause for a second and stop looking at me like that, because when he does, all I can think is his name.
Mark.
“Yes?” he asks, one corner of his mouth quirking up. I must have said his name aloud. The difference between my thoughts and reality is a line so fine that the only thing separating the two is…well…
I don’t know.
I take one step toward the kitchen table. My ankle wobbles and I lose my footing, grabbing on to the back of a chair to prevent myself from falling. I pull the chair out and he watches me. His body is poised to jump in. I know he wants to help.
He knows he needs to give me distance.
Once I’m seated, he turns away and walks to the counter. Mark takes something out of the cupboard and sets it down. He turns on the water for a half a minute. I look away and stare at my injured wrist. The blood is caked and the scratches Eric left are an angry red.
Eric. Did that really happen today? My morning began at Minnie’s house, with the confrontation in the front yard as Mark pulled away in his cop car. I went to work. Effie gave me the files—
The files. Where is my backpack?
“My backpack?” I ask as I realize Mark’s making coffee. The machine begins to gurgle and hiss.
“It’s next to my bed,” Mark says, not turning around. He stretches up to grab two mugs from a top shelf in the cupboard and his shirt pulls out of his pants, exposing exquisitely cut muscles along the base of his back.
A thrill of attraction races through me like an electromagnetic pulse.
“Thank God,” I say. I slump, my elbows on the table as Mark pours the coffee. I see him out of the corner of my eye. The coffee’s hot, the steam rising up like it’s trying to give me answers. If only life were that simple.
“Why are you so worried about your backpack?” Mark asks, pulling out a chair from the table and sitting on it, straddling the back, his own cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He looks at me, the guarded dark expression gone. He’s more open.
My eyes skitter to the badge. He looks at me. The guarded look is back.
Do I tell him what’s in the backpack? I don’t know any more. I want to trust him with every fiber of my being. In some ways I don’t have a choice. I came back with mixed feelings about Mark. Amy and Elaine are my anchors. Right now, Elaine’s taking care of Amy’s mom, and Amy is gone.
Mark is my last best hope for helping my friend. For finding out what exactly happened to my dad. I don’t think the question is, Can I trust him?
I think the question is whether I even have a choice here.
“Right before Eric walked into the office,” I say slowly, pausing to blow on the hot coffee, “someone at work gave me some important documents.”
“Well, that’s specific,” he says with a half-grin.
I narrow my eyes and try to decide whether to smile. “I’m not giving you
any names. Not yet.”
He gives me a look as if to say fair enough. “Go on,” he urges.
“The documents are supposedly emails that the dean may have had scrubbed. Emails between my dad and the dean.”
“What?” Mark says sharply.
“I know. It sounds crazy,” I say, swallowing hard. “But I’ve read a couple of them already. They’re real.”
“How did you get them?” Mark demands.
I hold up a hand. It’s the one with the scratches on it. “I’ll tell you my secrets, but you’ve got to tell me yours first,” I insist.
The challenge hangs in the air between us.
He nods. “That’s fair.”
I take a deep breath, and let my shoulders drop as much as they can. That’s not very far. I’m so tense it feels like two giant bricks of concrete live where my shoulder blades are supposed to. So many muscles ache. So much skin is torn. And yet I’m grateful.
I’m grateful, and I should feel gratitude. I’m not kidnapped like Amy. I’m not drugged like Minnie. I’m not like Elaine, trying to take care of an overwrought mother. And I’m not Dad, who’s dead.
My gratitude bubbles up, that Mark is willing to tell me everything that really happened. And something more than gratitude is there.
I look at him. His hair’s a mess, a strong wave floating over his creased brow, the lines drawn by muscles woven into worry. Those honey-colored eyes are a deep amber now, the skin around them tight with cunning and intensity. His mouth is set with determination. His shoulders stand tall and straight as he sits up and drinks two or three sips of courage from his steaming mug.
“You sure you’re ready, Carrie?” he asks. His words are steady, his voice is firm, his tone is commanding.
And I match him step for step when I reply, “I am.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’m not sure how far back I need to go,” he says with a sigh.
“Go back as far as you need to,” I stress.
He gives me a half laugh, the kind of smirk with a chortle that means a person is reluctant to say what they know they have to say.
“I suppose that means going back to tell you all about my mom and dad.”
Dangerous To Love Page 177
