by Karen Rose
“He hurt her.”
“She had to go to the community doctor. I heard some of the women talking and they said he’d torn her up.” His voice broke.
Daisy leaned her cheek against his upper arm, continuing to rub his back. “I’m sorry, Gideon. I’m so sorry.”
He forced the emotion back. “She was called Miriam after that. It was her given name. Many of the girls were named Miriam. Those who weren’t often took that name on their wedding days. I often wondered why, but I got my answer when I was given my first walk-through of the smithy. There were a dozen lockets that said ‘Miriam,’ just waiting for their wearers to turn twelve. Only a few with other names. Rachel, Sarah, Rebekah, Hannah. Mostly Old Testament names. He had templates, each made a different name. It made his engraving job easier, I guess.”
“Did you want to be a smith?”
“No. But I knew if I was around, I could watch out for Eileen.” He let his head fall forward, stretching his neck, remembering to breathe again after her hand ran up his back to pet the back of his neck.
“But that’s not what happened.”
“No.” His body went rigid, his muscles tightening painfully, as he allowed himself to recall what had happened. The hand on his neck began long sweeps down his back and up his neck, over and over. She wrapped her other hand around his biceps, turning so that her forehead was pressed to his shoulder.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” she whispered.
Her forehead pivoted as her chin lifted, her lips brushing his arm. He could feel the soft movement through the fabric of his shirt, and suddenly he wished the shirt were gone so that he could feel her lips against his skin.
“McPhearson was an equal-opportunity abuser,” he bit out.
She didn’t gasp, didn’t stiffen, didn’t do anything other than to continue brushing kisses over his upper arm. But he heard her swallow, so he knew she’d understood.
“On their thirteenth birthday, the boys entered special training. I’d always believed that meant the beginning of the apprenticeship and the beginning of church training. It might have been for some of the others, if their master didn’t care for boys. When McPhearson took me to his home that night, I wasn’t expecting what he tried to do.”
She swallowed again. “Tried?”
“I . . . resisted.” He’d resisted so hard that McPhearson died. “I got away from him.” And left him bleeding on the floor of the smithy, his head busted open on the anvil.
Gideon hadn’t meant to kill him. He’d just been trying to get away.
But he hadn’t been sorry. Until he’d seen Ephraim Burton’s face on Daisy’s card table. Then sorry was all he’d been able to be. Because then he’d known who Eileen had been forced to marry. She’d gone from a degenerate pervert to a violent man with very big hands that he knew how to use to inflict the maximum pain.
“How did McPhearson die, Gideon?” she asked, so very quietly. “Because if you tell me that you didn’t kill him, I’ll be disappointed.”
He flinched in surprise, then pulled away so that he could tip her face up. She met his eyes, hers filled with tears and defiance. She didn’t look away and he couldn’t, either.
“Did you?” she whispered. “I really hope you did.”
All he could do was nod.
“Good,” she said fiercely, a blink sending the tears down her cheeks. “I hope that bastard suffered.”
“No,” he said, and incredibly enough, he almost smiled. The urge was quickly quelled, though, and he tugged her so that she resumed her earlier position, her face against his arm. Keep kissing me. Please.
She did one better, moving the hand on his arm to thread her fingers with his. She had her arms around him now and she started kissing his shoulder again.
“We were fighting and I pushed him down. He hit his head on the anvil.”
“So it was an accident. Too bad.”
That Daisy was a little bloodthirsty came as no great shock. There was a core of steel in the woman. He hoped to see more of it. More of her.
“When did Ephraim Burton beat you?”
He steeled his own spine. “About five minutes after I ran out of the smithy. He saw me running and came to check on McPhearson. He gave this roar that I could hear across the compound. Like a wounded bear.”
“Where were you?”
“I’d hidden in Amos’s barn.”
“Your mother’s husband.”
“Right. I knew where he kept his wood-carving knives. He was a carpenter. I’d grabbed one of the knives when Ephraim busted into the barn, a couple of the other men with him. Ephraim was McPhearson’s best friend. He claimed the right to deliver justice.”
“He was going to kill you.”
“Yeah. He nearly did.”
Her grip on his hand tightened. “Did you fight back?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t kill him.”
“No,” he whispered. “But I tried.”
She reared back, understanding clearly dawning. “You stabbed him in the eye. That’s why he has a patch.”
He could only blink at her. “How did you . . .”
“It was the look on your face, Gideon, when you saw him with the patch. You did that to him? Well, good. I wish you’d buried the knife in his throat.”
Bloodthirsty indeed. But Gideon had to shake his head. “He apparently got first dibs on McPhearson’s wives, because McPhearson had no blood brothers, at least within the community. Ephraim was ten times worse than McPhearson from a cruelty standpoint.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “Poor Eileen.”
He nodded miserably, forcing back the bile that burned his throat. “I can’t even imagine her surviving that man. But she must have.”
“Because her locket made it out of the compound. What would have happened to the locket if she’d died?”
“It would’ve been melted down to make a new one or given to another Miriam.”
She lifted her hand from his back to cup his face, just as she’d done earlier in the day. Her thumb brushing over his beard, she asked, “How did you get away?”
“My mom,” he whispered. “I have a vague memory of Amos rushing into the barn after the men carried Ephraim to the healer. I think Amos truly believed in the community’s teachings. My mother wasn’t unhappy with him. She begged him to help her get me out. The next day was Saturday, the day that the truck made the trip for supplies—the things we couldn’t grow or make. It took vegetables and some of the products we made. Stuff from the smithy and some stuff that men like Amos made in his carpentry shop, furniture and things like that. The women made quilts and baked goods. Stuff like that.”
“You hid in the truck?”
“My mom hid with me, in the back. I have this vague memory, more like a dream, of her holding me under a blanket, crying so quietly. Telling me to hold on, to be brave. That she . . . she . . .” His throat closed and his eyes and nose burned.
Daisy pulled his head to her shoulder and, sinking back against the arm of the sofa, pulled him down with her and wrapped her arms around him. “That she loved you,” she whispered, and he nodded, helpless to stop the tears. Daisy held him, stroking his hair, not saying another word.
Daisy didn’t tell him it would be all right. She didn’t tell him not to cry. She didn’t make any soothing noises or promises that meant nothing. She just lay back against the arm of the sofa, holding him until he could breathe again.
He sighed, exhausted. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she murmured into his ear. “Please don’t be.”
“Rafe doesn’t know any of that.”
“He’ll never hear it from me. I promise.”
“I believe you.” He wasn’t sure why he did, but he knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. “I need to wash my face.” No way did
he want her to see him like this.
He should feel shame at having cried on her but he didn’t. And he wasn’t sure what to think about that.
“In a minute.” She still stroked his hair. “Let’s just finish this so you don’t have to talk about it again. How did you get to the bus station? The one in Redding, right?”
“That’s what I was told when I regained consciousness. I didn’t know how I got there. I was told that I was found behind the building by a cop doing patrol. My pockets were empty and my shoes were gone.”
“You were robbed while you lay there.”
“That’s what the cops thought. I was airlifted to the hospital at UC Davis. It’s a level one trauma center.”
The hand stroking his hair faltered, then resumed its soothing movement. “Because you nearly died.”
“Yeah.”
She was quiet for so long that he considered getting up. But it felt so good to be held. It had been a long damn time. He relaxed a little more, nuzzling into the curve where her neck met her shoulder. She smelled so good.
“You said you didn’t know how you got to the bus station,” she said abruptly.
He didn’t want to move. “What?”
“You said you didn’t know how you got there. Does that mean you found out later?”
He stilled, stunned that she’d pulled that out of everything he’d said. Although he shouldn’t have been. The way she’d methodically put that puzzle together demonstrated how her mind worked.
You won’t ever be able to get anything past her.
Won’t ever be able to. The phrase had his brain momentarily shorting out. That was a future tense. That it wasn’t scaring the hell out of him was something else he wasn’t sure what to think about. He’d worry about it later. At the moment, she was waiting for an answer.
“I found out later. My . . . sister Mercy got out. She told me.” Eventually. Mercy hadn’t told him much of anything else, though.
The deep breath she drew lifted his head, lowering it gently when she exhaled into his hair. “But not your mom?”
He shook his head, unable to say the word “no,” but he didn’t have to because she drew another deep breath that sounded suspiciously wet.
“I’m sorry, Gideon. I’m so sorry.”
I’m sorry, too, Mama. So sorry.
She tilted his head up enough to kiss his forehead and he felt the wetness on her cheeks. “Thank you for telling me,” she murmured before releasing him.
He nodded against her, not trusting his voice. He lay there on the sofa, half on top of her. His arm was around her waist, his cheek having found a resting place between her breasts. He’d rarely felt so drained. Or so . . . safe.
She was humming to him now. Something low and husky. Sexy. But also sweet. A lullaby, he realized hazily. “Shh, just let go, Gideon. Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”
She held him close, brushing kisses on the top his head, her hand petting his beard. His brain began to shut down even as his body woke up. She was soft and curvy and smelled so damn good. He turned his head, pressing his lips into her palm. He nuzzled, wanting her, but only briefly registering his sexual frustration before he drifted off.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 11:15 P.M.
“Hey, Trish, isn’t that your friend? The radio chick?”
His head snapped from his phone screen, his gaze zeroing in on the TV that hung over the bar. It was her. Eleanor Dawson. The segment on the news was the same one he’d been watching on his phone, but the TV over the bar had closed captioning so he could actually see what she said. He hadn’t been able to hear it on his phone.
The noise in the bar was deafening. He could barely hear himself think. And he needed to think.
Especially because Eleanor Dawson was talking about missing prostitutes.
How did she know? Who else knew? Holy fucking shit. He wanted to scream, but he did not. Instead, he repositioned himself on the bar stool so that he could fully see the screen.
Nobody knows anything, he told himself. Nobody has any idea that you’re the one who snatched the hooker. Nobody has any idea that you have her stashed in your basement freezer. And nobody knew that he’d stolen Miss Rude from the airport in Colorado.
Nobody knows. You’re safe. You’ve been smart.
Nobody knows.
“Do you know of a specific person who’s disappeared in the city?” the reporter was asking, and the Dawson woman looked sad.
“I’m sure you have ways of getting all that information,” she answered.
She does not know. If she did, he’d be sitting in a jail cell right now.
So chill. Enjoy your beer. Find out when her friend gets off work. Because he was going to follow the unfortunate waitress and find out where Eleanor lived.
He frowned. Wait a minute. Radio chick? He restarted the video on his phone and held it up to his ear. Aha. That’s where I heard her voice before. She’s the radio chick on The Big Bang with TNT. Who’d been a royal dick that morning.
Poppy Frederick, the reporter called her. That’s her. Excitement had him sitting a little straighter. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to find Eleanor’s address. Maybe she went by Poppy. Although Eleanor was a much nicer name.
Whatever. He turned off his phone, slid it in his pocket, and proceeded to enjoy his beer. Soon he’d know everything he needed to know about Eleanor Dawson, a.k.a. Poppy Frederick.
Everything was going to be just fine.
TWELVE
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1:30 A.M.
Finally the waitress was going home. He’d been waiting across the street from the bar in his car for two hours. Covering his head with the hood of his slicker, he locked up his car and followed her. It was still raining cats and dogs, which worked in his favor because the waitress kept her head down the whole way. She never looked up, never noticed him.
He waited until she’d entered the apartment building, relieved that there was no lock on the door. There was a plate glass window next to the entrance and he stood there, watching as she checked her mailbox before starting up the stairs, her head still hanging low. He slipped through the door and followed her as she trudged up three flights of stairs, a heavy backpack on one shoulder. Staying back a flight, he waited until she’d unlocked all three locks and pushed the door open before making his move.
Sprinting up the remaining stairs, a wadded-up cloth in hand, he shoved her inside and in one move stuffed the cloth in her mouth and wrapped his arm around her throat. She hadn’t had time to scream.
Quickly he bound her hands and feet with zip ties and rolled her to her back. Her eyes were wide with terror. Good. He wanted her to be very afraid.
“This is how this is going to go,” he murmured, leaning close. “You’re going to tell me where your friend lives. You know, the blonde who was with you last night.”
Her eyes grew even wider.
“Nod if you understand,” he commanded, and she jerked a fast nod. “Trish, right?”
Another nod as her eyes began to fill with tears.
Sydney’s eyes did that. Filled with tears that meant nothing. Tears were manipulative. He’d learned never to be moved by a woman’s tears. They just made him angrier. Crouching beside her, he flicked his switchblade open and pressed the tip to her throat. He cautiously removed the gag, ready to shove it back in if she made a sound.
“Where does she live?”
“I don’t know,” Trish rasped. “I really don’t.”
“You’re besties. You don’t go to her place? Ever? You expect me to believe that?” He pressed the tip of the blade a little harder, and she cried out. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” she insisted, but she was lying. He could always tell.
They always lied.
He shoved the gag back in her mouth and dumped the contents of her purse on the floor beside her, sorting until he found her phone. It was unlocked, so he opened her contacts. No Eleanor Dawson. But there was a Daisy Dawson.
There was only a phone number next to her name. No address.
He clicked on the call log. Trish had received a call from Daisy a few hours before the attack, but the only texts were from earlier in the day when the two agreed to meet at the community center for their AA meeting.
He glanced at the bound woman, whose eyes were closed, tears steadily sliding down her face. That was why she and the blonde had been at the community center. AA.
Wish I’d known. I’d have brought booze as a little temptation.
She might have a bottle stashed somewhere, though. Some alcoholics did. Leaving her on the floor, he went into the kitchen and riffled through cabinets and the small pantry, looking for her emergency stash. Then he stopped when he passed the refrigerator, where a flyer was attached with a magnet. At the top of the flyer was the grainy photo of a woman.
It was her. Poppy Frederick a.k.a. Eleanor a.k.a. Daisy Dawson. He leaned closer and scanned the flyer. It was for a pet adoption clinic that Poppy was “hosting” at Barx and Bonz. That meant she’d be there in person. Tomorrow, from ten to two.
I can take it from there. Relief rolled over him in a wave. That took care of that concern. Now he could finish what he’d started Thursday afternoon. When he’d stumbled into the bar, full of rage, after getting the news that Paul was selling the company.
When he’d first laid eyes on the waitress who should have been nicer to him.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 3:05 A.M.
He slowed his step, tugging on Mutt’s leash when the dog would have kept walking. Because they were here. A pretty Victorian house in the middle of Midtown.
Trish had never divulged Daisy’s address, claiming until the bitter end that she didn’t know where her friend lived. He had to admire that kind of loyalty.
