Twisted

by Andrea Kane

  Jacking up the car wouldn’t be too bad. She’d bought one of those hydraulic floor jacks. But removing the tire was hell. Thanks to the chill of winter, the lug nuts weren’t cooperating. The second one was tight—very tight. Twisting it took all Sloane’s strength, and dug the wrench into her palm. And the third one was frozen solid, and wasn’t budging. After ten minutes of battling it, Sloane was sweating and tears had filled her eyes from the intensity of the pain. Her scar tissue was throbbing, her index finger was numb, and the nerve pain in her hand was shooting all the way up her arm.

  Swearing, she threw down the wrench and flipped open her phone. It was either call a gas station or flag down some students—who were nowhere to be found, thanks to the rain. And Derek and Tom were still in a meeting, so she wasn’t about to interrupt them.

  So a gas station it was.

  She punched on the phone—and was greeted by the fact that she had eleven missed calls, all from a restricted caller.

  She was still staring at the missed-call messages and fuming over the fact that she’d received them, when she got that feeling again—like someone was watching her. She raised her head slowly and looked around, pretending to scan the area for someone who could potentially assist her with the flat.

  There was no one in plain sight. That meant nothing, since whoever was out there didn’t want to be seen. But he was there. She could sense it.

  It was the where and the why that was irking her.

  At that precise moment, her cell phone rang again, flashing the restricted call in the caller-ID screen.

  Livid about this invasion of her personal space, Sloane refused to give in to the jerk responsible. No way would she give him the satisfaction of answering his call, or appearing to be panicked by the realization that she was being harassed. In fact, she’d act as if his call, and its significance, hadn’t even registered in her mind.

  To that end, she made a loud exasperated sound and turned off her phone, flipping it closed as if opting to ignore any incoming calls in lieu of getting help to fix her car. She’d psych Mr. Restricted out by denying him the very reaction he sought.

  Despite her bravado, Sloane wasn’t a fool. She knew that her caller was more than just an obnoxious telephone harasser. Whoever he was, his actions were personal. He was, at the very least, watching her and trying to scare her with his nonstop phone calls. At worst, he was someone with a personal vendetta, and was acting out, maybe even going so far as to shove a nail in her tire to cause her flat.

  The good news was that, just like the other morning in her backyard, he wasn’t coming after her. It was the same scenario. He’d had ample time and opportunity. She was alone, the parking lot was deserted, and the area was thickly wooded. Yet he hadn’t assaulted her.

  No, this was a head game—for the time being. But she had no intention of letting it continue. Whoever this son of a bitch was, she’d find out—today—and get a new cell-phone number in the process.

  The hell with the gas station. She wasn’t calling them while dodging this wack job. She’d take a walk in the rain and find a blue light phone to call campus security. They’d help change her tire. Then she’d get out of here, get in touch with the right someones, and initiate a trace on her mystery pest.

  She threw her tools into the trunk of her car and locked it. What a fine way to end the day. She looked and felt like a drowned rat, her car was out of commission, her hand and arm were throbbing like hell, and she was being stalked by some weirdo. It couldn’t get much worse.

  Evidently, she was wrong.

  She turned back toward campus, intending to hunt down a campus phone—and promptly collided with Derek.

  “Car trouble?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as icy sheets of rain streamed through his dark hair.

  Leave it to Derek to be unbothered by getting drenched.

  “I have a flat,” Sloane informed him. “There’s a nail in my tire. And I can’t get the damned lug nuts to give.”

  “Outdone by a couple of lug nuts? That doesn’t sound like you. The Sloane I knew would have bludgeoned those lug nuts off the tire and flung them onto the ground, where they’d be begging for mercy.”

  “That was then. This is now. Things change. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some help.” Sloane dragged her left sleeve across her face to wipe away the rain so she could see. Then she sidestepped Derek and started to walk away.

  “Wait a minute.” He grabbed her right arm to stop her. “I’ll help you change the—” He broke off as Sloane emitted a stifled whimper. “What’s wrong?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, gritting her teeth as a jolt of pain shot through her arm. She flexed her fingers and winced as the pain radiated down, slicing through her finger and palm.

  “I’m fine,” she managed. “I just need to get the damned flat fixed.”

  “No, you’re not fine.” Derek saw her wince again, his gaze shifting to the arm he was still gripping. Abruptly, he realized what was going on, and released his hold. Instead, he caught her wrist and drew it toward him, turning her hand palm up.

  Sloane bit back a moan of pain.

  “Your whole palm is inflamed,” Derek announced, frowning. “What the hell did you do, wrestle with the lug-nut wrench for a half hour?”

  “I didn’t time myself.” Sloane tried to tug her hand away, but Derek wasn’t complying. He stared at her injury, seeing it—really seeing it—for the first time.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, scrutinizing the sharp incision lines and patches of scar tissue, now swollen and red from Sloane’s battle with the wrench. “Your hand’s like a battlefield.”

  Something inside Sloane went very cold. “Give the man a cigar. He finally gets it.”

  For a long moment, Derek said nothing. He just stared at her hand. When he raised his head, his midnight gaze reflected some ambiguous emotion that Sloane couldn’t quite place.

  “You and I need to talk,” he stated flatly. “I’m driving you over to the student health center so you can get whatever first aid you need for your hand. While you’re there, I’ll come back here and change your tire. Then we’re getting out of here. You’ll follow me in your car. We’ll drive to my glamorous Best Western. We don’t have to go inside. We can sit in the car. Or walk around the parking lot with an umbrella. I don’t give a damn. But we’re having a conversation—a real one. Alone and without interruptions.”

  Sloane didn’t even blink. “With all due respect, it’s a little late for that. Thirteen months too late. Plus, I’m not in the mood. I’m in horrible pain. I’m freezing cold. I’m wet and dirty. I’ve got three pissed-off dachshunds waiting for me to pick them up, and an exhausted, elderly woman taking care of them when she should be taking care of herself. Oh, and I’ve got a few favors to call in so I can get my hands on cell-phone records and figure out who’s been screwing with me via heavy-breathing hang-ups and following me around. So how about if you just drop me off at the health center and change my flat. Then you can take off, and we can skip the conversation.”

  “Wait.” Derek held up his palm. “Go back to that part about the hang-ups and the stalker.”

  “I don’t know if he’s a stalker. Maybe he just wants a date. If so, I’ll either say yes or get a new cell-phone number, depending on how hot he is.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Neither am I. But I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “And I’m capable of pulling the strings you need to bypass the red tape of initiating a call trace. You’ll have your caller’s info and a call block ASAP.”

  Sloane inhaled slowly. “If you can make that happen, I’ll owe you one. In the meantime, I’ve got to take care of my car and my hand.”

  “Like I said, I’ll help you with both.”

  “I appreciate that. But just so we’re clear, the payment for all this help you’re offering doesn’t include a heart-to-heart.”

  “Wrong. You said you owed me one, remember?”
>
  “I remember. And I meant it—with one stipulation. No personal conversation. I’m not interested in reliving our good-byes—or lack thereof.”

  “Sorry, that stipulation doesn’t work for me.”

  “Why not?” Bitterness laced Sloane’s tone. “You suddenly need to talk things out? The silence worked fine for you for thirteen months.”

  “Oh, you mean since you quit the Bureau, cut me out of your life, and walked away?”

  “Walked away?” Sloane felt her restraint snap. After the past half hour, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. “How could I walk when I was shoved? The minute I didn’t handle things the way you would have, you wrote me off.” She broke off, fought for control, and then gave it up.

  Stored-up rage exploded through her like cannon fire, and she planted herself right in Derek’s face, raised her head, and met his gaze with her own blazing stare. “That day in the alley when I was stabbed, my life changed forever. Mine, not yours. You had no idea what I was feeling. Not the pain. Not the fear. And not the isolation. All you knew was that my assailant was caught, the incident was over, and I should have found a way to be the person I was before. I should have risen above all adversity, overcome the trauma, and emerged as strong as before, unscathed by a near-death experience. When I couldn’t manage that, you categorized me as a weakling and a deserter—both to the Bureau and to you. Ever the Army Ranger, governed by an uncompromising set of rules and principles. You might be the family rebel who kissed off West Point and went the ROTC route while your brothers and sister followed in your father’s footsteps, but in this case, General Parker would be proud. Like him, it’s your way or the highway.”

  A muscle was working furiously at Derek’s jaw. “Is that how you see it? That I pushed you away? Then how do you explain the two dozen unreturned phone calls? Or the five times I showed up at your apartment, knowing full well you were home, and stood outside pounding on your front door and bellowing for you to let me in, making such a racket that your neighbors had me thrown out of the building? Fine. I was hard on you—maybe way too hard. But you shut me down, and shut me out.”

  “I nearly bled to death.”

  “You think I didn’t know that? You think I wasn’t there? I showed up at that hospital the minute the call came in. I made a huge scene trying to get in and see you. But the doctors refused—not that I could blame them. They were busy trying to stop the bleeding and get you to the operating room. After the surgery, I was told you were really out of it, and visitors were discouraged. So I peeked in on you and left. When I called the next day, I was told you were wiped out and didn’t want visitors.”

  “That wasn’t personal; it was true. I needed time alone.”

  “Fine, well, afterward, I saw you twice—once at home and once at work. The first time you were so drugged up on painkillers, I’m not sure you even knew I was there. And the second time you were so emotionally distant, we barely connected.”

  “Oh, we connected all right. Enough for you to let me know that I was overreacting in my response to what had happened and copping out by leaving the Bureau.”

  Derek’s jaw tightened another notch. “I thought you were making a huge mistake. I still do. You could have been placed on medical mandate until you healed. You were a damned good agent. You speak more languages than I can count, and you’re the best hostage negotiator I’ve ever seen. You can talk a subject out of any situation, no matter how dire. There’s no good reason why you left. You could have stayed on, giving your all to the Bureau—the only difference being you wouldn’t be carrying your gun or making arrests.”

  “The only difference? That’s all the difference in the world. Would you have settled for that? Never. Picture yourself watching your fellow Army Rangers deployed to the Middle East while you stayed behind and coached from the sidelines. You’d go nuts—and so would I. A medical mandate would mean I wouldn’t be a real agent anymore; I’d be a glorified pencil-pushing member of the support staff. And in my case that medical mandate wouldn’t have been for a few months. It would have been for at least a year—as it turns out, more. Did you ever stop to consider what that would have done to me?”

  Derek didn’t answer, but Sloane could see by his expression that her point had gotten through.

  “What’s more,” she continued, “when you saw how I was acting, did it ever occur to you that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress, not to mention enduring more pain than I ever anticipated? Or were you too pissed off that I was leaving the Bureau?”

  “It wasn’t just the Bureau.” This time Derek blasted back, and Sloane was stunned by the suppressed rage in his tone. “You were leaving me, leaving us. No argument. No discussion. Just good-bye. As for what you were going through, give me a little credit. I’ve seen enough post-traumatic stress and pain to last a lifetime. I knew you were suffering. But what would you have had me do? I couldn’t get through that damned wall you’d put up. Let’s face it, Sloane, you were already gone long before you packed and left Cleveland. So, yeah, I was a principled, opinionated jerk. But at least I was willing to fight for what we had—which was rare as hell, by the way. You just gave up on it, along with your career. You were a coward, Sloane. You turned your back on everything, hoping to erase the past—and the pain—by starting a new life. But it didn’t work, did it? It’s still there, eating away at you, just like it’s eating away at me.”

  Derek’s words cut through the wind and the rain, hovering like a dark, ponderous cloud.

  There it was. Raw, exposed, and excruciating. Put out there for the first time.

  Sloane pressed her lips together and swallowed. Rain was pouring down her face. She was shivering violently. And the pain in her hand was bordering on numbness.

  This was more than she could handle.

  “I can’t do this now, Derek,” she said quietly. “If you want to tear open old wounds and have it out, fine. But later. I need to get to health services. And I need to call my hand therapist. I can’t afford another setback—not again.”

  Derek took one look at her white face, and nodded. “Come on.” He pressed a palm to the small of her back, guiding her toward his car. “I’ll run you over there now.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. By the time I return to pick you up, I’ll have changed your flat, started a trace on your phone stalker, and canceled dinner with McGraw. When you get back in this car, and after you’ve consulted with your hand therapist and made sure your physical scars are okay, that’s when we’re tearing open the emotional ones. So steel yourself. We’re putting all our cards on the table and finishing what we started—once and for all.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  DATE: 1 April

  TIME: 2100 hours

  OBJECTIVE: Tyche

  There she was. The goddess of fortune, prosperity, and luck.

  She’d stayed at work late tonight. Usually, her schedule was like clockwork. She’d leave the martial-arts academy at eight-thirty. She’d wait until after the last class was under way and her bookkeeping work was wrapped up. Then she’d head to her car, and drive back to campus.

  Once there, she’d park and either go straight to her dorm to finish up her assignments or trek across campus to play a few hands of cards with her friends. On those days, she’d still be back in her room by two; it was only Fridays that she stayed out all night for her weekly poker marathon.

  Tonight would be a dry run. I’d follow her back to her campus, and make sure every detail was just as I’ve recorded it. Any adjustments had to be made now.

  I had only a few days left.

  And so did she.

  Best Western Garden State Inn

  Absecon, New Jersey

  9:20 P.M.

  Sloane rolled over and opened her eyes.

  She blinked, totally disoriented, wondering where the hell she was. Darkness shrouded the unfamiliar room, although a single lamp cast enough light to tell her she was on a king-size
bed covered by a bright blue-and-orange-print bedspread.

  She propped herself up on one elbow, stared blankly down at the institutional-blue carpet as she tried to clear the cobwebs from her head. She hated this feeling—nauseated, headachy, and like her brain was filled with cotton. It brought back unwelcome memories of coming to in a recovery room after surgery.

  No way she was feeling that way again.

  She raked a hand through her hair, wincing as a twinge of pain shot through her palm, together with an unnatural stiffness and limited tactile ability and freedom of motion. She glanced at her hand, saw that it was bandaged and taped.

  Abruptly, she remembered.

  She was in Derek’s hotel room. He’d driven her here after the nurse practitioner at Stockton’s health services had treated her hand and given her some heavy-duty painkillers.

  Sitting up, Sloane examined herself, noting that she was wearing an oversize olive sweatshirt with the Colorado State insignia on it. Derek’s alma mater. She vaguely remember changing into it, peeling off her wet Tahari suit—now fit for kitty litter—and pulling on the warm sweatshirt.

  The clock on the night table said it was after nine. Sloane’s scrutiny said she was alone in the hotel room.

  Beside the clock was an uncapped but unused bottle of springwater, and she reached out to get it—this time with her left hand. She gulped down half a bottle, partly because she was thirsty and partly to rehydrate her muscles and kick-start her brain.

  She’d put down the water and was trying to piece together the events of the last four hours, when the door opened and Derek stepped in. He’d changed into jeans and a royal-blue fleece sweatshirt.

  “You’re awake. Good.” He went over to the desk and set down two Burger King bags and a cardboard tray with two sodas in it. Sloane’s stomach growled at the aroma.

  Derek chuckled. “Awake and hungry,” he amended. “No problem.” He carried the food over and set dinner up on the night table. “I got you your favorites—a Whopper with cheese, a large fries, and a Diet Coke with lemon. I assume that hasn’t changed?”