by Abbie Roads
The pancake turned into a leaden lump in Isleen’s stomach.
“Alex!” Roweena’s tone was filled with shock and anger. “Don’t you blame her. She barely made it out of there alive. Blame the person who held them captive.”
“Gale’s not the same. She should be getting better by being near me and she’s not. I want you to tell me what happened to her.” The ice in his gaze pierced Isleen’s grave of memories.
“Alex. Leave.” Row’s voice was all angry mother. The tone could shrink an adult man to little-boy size. “Leave this table. Right now.” She stood from her seat and pointed out into the house. He didn’t leave; he just stared at Isleen, accusation chilling his expression.
“I didn’t hurt her. I’d never hurt her. I tried to protect her.” Images of torment and torture flashed into Isleen’s mind—escapees from the memory grave. Things she never ever wanted to remember, things she didn’t want to speak of, things she had to keep buried. “I’m not going to talk about it.” She heard herself yelling and couldn’t lasso her volume back down. “None of it matters now. It’s done. It’s over. And I’m done being hurt by it.”
* * *
Xander shivered beneath the cold spray of water. Goose bumps prickled his skin, and chills racked his body, but he wasn’t getting out until the goddamned urge to chase after Isleen passed. He wasn’t going to set foot in that house, but goddamn, he was worried about her. Even under the frigid spray, his face fired with embarrassment that he’d had to call Row and ask her to check on Isleen. Row telling him that Isleen was okay, that she was just getting out of the shower, did nothing to calm him. It was like his body was primed in her direction, vigilant for a threat, ready to sprint to her rescue.
His phone on the sink vibrated loudly against the porcelain. It could be about Isleen. Naked and splashing water everywhere, he jumped out of the shower.
Kent calling lit up the display.
Fuck. He’d forgotten Kent intended to conduct his initial interview with Isleen today.
“Yeah,” he answered, reaching for a towel.
“You going to be around after I interview Isleen? We need to talk.”
“So talk.”
“Face-to-face. Asshole.” Anger sharpened Kent’s tone, but Xander didn’t care. Maybe talking on the phone was the way to handle the guy. No hearing his thoughts. No urge to go rage monkey.
“I’m busy.” He wasn’t intentionally antagonizing the guy. Okay, maybe just a little.
“Make time. I need some answers.”
“Here’s some answers for you. No. No. And, guess what? No.”
“I don’t have time for your shit. We’re pulling up to the house right now. Camille wants to see you. Be ready to talk when I’m done with Isleen.” Kent disconnected the call.
We’re pulling up to the house right now? Camille wants to see you? Xander did not just hear those words. Kent was not saying that Camille was with him. No. It was a joke. Yeah, because they always enjoyed a good laugh together.
“Shit!” he yelled. Camille was here. He’d never invited her to his place. Hell, she thought he lived at the main house. She had made the assumption that was why he never invited her here—didn’t want to welcome her into the family home for a fuck. She didn’t know he had his own cabin on the top of the hill.
He hadn’t expected Isleen and Camille’s worlds to collide—at least not this early. Xander knew exactly what Kent was doing. The guy wanted Camille to stake her claim in front of Isleen and force Xander to make a decision. The guy was an asshole for doing that to Isleen. A whole new level of low in Kent and Xander’s relationship was about to occur.
Xander yanked on a pair of jeans, the material scraping skin and hair off his damp legs. He jammed his feet into a pair of boots and sprinted for the main house.
* * *
She had yelled at Alex. Her words and tone hung in the air the way a piano chord still hums long after it has been struck.
A knock on the front door snapped all of their eyes and attention away from Isleen. Row headed across the house to answer the knock, while Matt and Alex left the table at the same time, both of them exiting the main house via a door underneath the balcony. Isleen stared down at her piled-mile-high plate that she’d only eaten two bites from, her appetite having disappeared.
“Isleen, you’ve got company,” Roweena said and moved in next to Isleen’s seat almost as if she were protecting her.
Isleen raised her eyes from the plate. The man from the hospital yesterday—she’d only seen him briefly—and a woman. They were a beautiful pair. Both had golden hair and stunning moss-colored eyes. He was classically handsome with sharp male features and carried a square-shaped duffel bag slung over one shoulder. She was the femininely beautiful version of him. Had to be brother and sister. She wore a dress the color of her eyes and a pair of heels that made her as tall as her sibling. She was stunning enough to be a model.
“You’re looking good.” The man’s gaze roamed over Isleen’s face, snagging just a moment on her forehead, then moving on to her hair. “You’ve made a miraculous recovery.”
“I do feel better.” She smiled at the pair. “I saw you yesterday, but I don’t remember your name.”
“Oh jeesh. Sorry. I’m Kent Knight. I work with Xander at the BCI—Bureau of Criminal Investigation. We’re handling your case.”
“My case? What case?”
“The investigation.” He paused. “Into your abduction—”
Isleen flinched at the word abduction, and Kent stopped speaking. Uncomfortable silence filled the space until the woman stepped forward.
“I’m Camille, this guy’s sister. I’m not with the Bureau. I’m just here to visit my boyfriend.” She smiled, showing off a mouthful of white teeth that gleamed so brightly they almost glowed blue. “Xander.”
Isleen’s heart went cold, pumping frigid blood through her body. Goose bumps erupted over her skin. She shivered. No, it wasn’t a shiver. She was trembling. She felt as if some prankster had just pulled the chair out from beneath her and she was falling, flailing, trying to catch herself before she splattered onto the ground. Xander has a girlfriend. A girlfriend. A gorgeous girlfriend.
Roweena put her hand on Isleen’s shoulder.
She looked down at her flowing, pale-blue sundress. Row had stocked Isleen’s closet with all kinds of clothes. Isleen had picked out the dress before she got in the shower because she wanted Xander to think she was pretty. But next to this woman, Isleen looked like a child. Camille had a sophistication that Isleen would never possess. How could Xander ever be attracted to her when he had Camille? Was that the real reason for his initial hesitation? He didn’t want to cheat on his girlfriend, but didn’t want to come right out and say it? Or maybe he wanted just to fuck her—his words—and then go back to his girlfriend.
Stupid. She’d been so stupid to think a fairy-tale happily ever after was going to happen to her. Gran had always said, “Loving men makes women messy.” Now Isleen knew what Gran meant.
“Camille. It’s so nice to meet you.” Her lips seemed numb when she spoke, but at least her voice was audible.
“It’s nice meeting you too. I’ve wondered about the woman monopolizing all Xander’s attention.” Her words were spoken in a kind voice, but the woman was looking Isleen up and down as if she were something harmful to be categorized as merely approach-with-caution or skull-and-crossbones deadly.
“He’s all yours now.” Isleen packed her tone with sincerity. Row squeezed her shoulder, and Isleen knew that the old woman wasn’t happy with her words.
The kitchen door flew open, banging into the wall. Xander entered the house, his gaze finding her the moment he crossed the threshold, but she looked away. The sight of him was a pummeling her heart couldn’t withstand.
“Camille, what are you doing here?” Shock sharpened Xander’s voice.
> “Busted,” Isleen whispered, finally looking back at Xander. Row tapped her lightly on the shoulder. Xander thought he could get away with playing around with her, while he had a girlfriend on the side? Not going to happen.
“Hey, man,” Kent answered, his voice and demeanor too light, not acknowledging Xander’s obvious anger. “I’m going to talk to Isleen while you hang with your girlfriend. And then we need to go over some official business.” Kent turned to Roweena, completely ignoring the way the scars on Xander’s face flamed with rage. “Is there someplace private Isleen and I can talk?”
“How about out on the back porch?” Row pointed to the kitchen door still open. “Only the birds and leaves to hear you out there.”
“Sounds perfect.” Kent shifted the strange bag off his shoulder, carrying it in his hands, and headed in that direction.
Row bent down and whispered in her ear. “Don’t be so mad at Xander. None of this is exactly how it looks.”
Xander’s attention snapped to Row whispering in her ear, then his eyes met hers. Isleen searched his gaze, hoping to see an apology, an explanation, something that would justify this situation, but all she saw was guilt.
Camille sidled up to Xander, pressing herself fully against his body as if she were going to hug him, but Isleen watched the woman’s hand disappear into the space between their hips. Isleen’s eyes jumped back to Xander who still looked at her, not his girlfriend rubbing his crotch. A muscle in his cheek ticked. His eyes went cold.
Isleen strained to pull in enough oxygen to keep herself breathing. Seeing Xander—her savior, her rescuer, her dream man—with another woman hurt more than a fist crushing her heart to pulp.
She tore her gaze away from Xander and Camille’s PDA. On unsteady legs, she stood and moved to follow Kent outside.
“If you need me, I’ll be right here in the kitchen,” Row said. Isleen gave her a grateful smile. At least she had one friend in this house.
She closed the door behind her, closed Xander and Camille inside, and wrote “The End” to her and Xander’s short story. Her body felt like crying, but her eyes remained dry. The future that looked so good only an hour ago was now a putrid mess. It was up to her to figure out how to be happy—without Xander, without Alex or Matt or Gran. Her happiness was her responsibility. She was strong. She’d survived everything. She’d figure out a way to thrive.
She sucked in a breath and sat on the swing facing out over a deep tree-filled ravine. No breeze moved the leaves, but the morning birds still sang.
Kent, who’d been staring out over the railing, took a seat in one of the wicker chairs opposite her.
“You don’t have a very good view,” she said. “You can sit here if you want.” She patted the seat next to her.
“Actually, I think I have the best view.”
Was he joking?
His square-cut features looked serious. “I saw you right after Xander brought you in. You were mostly dead, looked it too, and today—only five days later—you are a vibrant woman. It’s like everything about you is a miracle. From how Xander found you, to you being Gale’s granddaughter, to your hair growing impossibly fast.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. “Today, life doesn’t feel very miraculous.”
“Hard seeing Xander with another woman?”
“Yeah.” Confessing her feelings to a total stranger was only further evidence of how starved she was for attention and affection.
“I’m an asshole for bringing her here, but I knew Xander wouldn’t tell you about Camille. He’s been with her about ten years. Treats her like shit and she eats it up. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
“I guess he’s not the person I thought he was.” Not the person I dreamed about.
“I’ve got something that might lift your spirits.” He reached into the strange-shaped duffel bag. Up close she could see the material was mostly made of mesh. He rummaged for a moment, then pulled out a little dog that was all skeletal legs, brindled fur, and ears three times larger than its head. It was the funniest looking canine she’d ever seen.
“Oh my gosh. He’s so sweet. What’s his name? Can I hold him?”
Kent’s face went serious. “His name is Killer. And before you hold him, I need to warn you. He lives up to his name—Killer.”
“He’s mean?” Disappointment raised the pitch of her voice.
Kent lowered his voice to sound like a corny radio announcer. “He’s a lady-killer. He doesn’t look like it, but he loves the ladies. Hell, he loves anyone who loves him.” Kent handed him over to her.
Killer’s fur wasn’t exactly soft; it was more bristly than anything. She settled him on her lap, but he twisted, stood on his back legs, his front paws on her chest, and licked her chin. His tongue was warm and… “Oh, his breath—”
Kent laughed, his features softening. “That’s his Achilles’ heel. I’ve done everything I can to get that stink under control. Mint charcoal doggy mouthwash in his water. No go. Doggy breath mints. No go. Brushing his teeth—that traumatized us both and still didn’t work.”
Killer settled back in her lap, his dark-chocolate eyes staring up at her. She didn’t need to be the dog whisperer to know he wanted her to pet him. She scratched his ears, and he let out a doggy sigh of total contentment.
“I picked him up at the Humane Society about a year ago. I went in there looking for a dude’s dog—you know, a Lab or German shepherd. I ended up with Killer. Just couldn’t walk away from that face with those ears. It’s taken him a while to adjust. At first, if I raised my voice—you know when you watch a game on TV or something—he’d start shaking, slink off, and hide like he thought I was going to beat him. He used to hoard his food too. He’d go to his food bowl, get a mouthful, then go spit it out in the corner of his bed, stockpiling it like one day I might stop feeding him or something. That’s gone now.”
“I can’t believe someone could be cruel to him. He’s the sweetest thing.” Killer stood, turned two circles on her lap, then lay down, curling up in a tight ball. His eyes fell shut and he was out. “I’m in love with him.”
“Told you. He’s a lady-killer.”
They sat quietly for a while, both watching Killer sleep.
“Isleen, I know it isn’t going to be easy, but I have to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?” He removed a small recorder from his pocket and placed it on the seat next to her.
“No, it’s not okay.” Her voice came out soft and weak. She hated that. “I appreciate visiting with Killer, and I would like us to be friends.” She harrumphed a feeling-sorry-for-herself sound. “I don’t have any, other than Row. But I can’t, Kent. I can’t talk about—”
Kent scooted his chair closer, until only a few inches separated their knees. He reached out to her, covering both her hands with his. His grip was warm and dry and pleasant, but not the same as when Xander touched her. There was no electricity. No zing or zip. Only the comfort of human contact.
“Let’s just start out with basic information. Like your full name, date of birth. You can stop this at any time. You’re in control.”
What did it hurt to give him her name? “Isleen Gale Walker. July Fourth—”
“You have a birthday in a few weeks. Let me be the first to tell you happy birthday. What kind of cake do you want?”
“Cake? It’s been so long since I thought about cake.” She paused, thinking back to the time before everything. “Gran used to make a chocolate cherry cake with chocolate frosting. Oh my gosh. It was incredible.”
“Sounds amazing. All I ever got growing up was store-bought clearance cake. The crazy flavor of the week that no one wanted to buy. One year it was prune spice cake. Prune cake shouldn’t be in the same sentence as birthday.”
Isleen giggled.
“You laughing at my childhood trauma?” Kent asked in mock hurt. His eyes met her
s and she saw something. It was more than the way the edges of his eyes tilted downward, lending his features a sadness; it had to do with the truth behind his joke. The light mood disappeared. “You still don’t want to answer any of my questions?”
She shook her head.
“Okay, I won’t ask you anything then.” His hands covering hers tightened, his fingers stretched out to cover the insides of her wrists. “Here’s what I know. I know that sometime between your junior and senior year at Prospectus High School, you vanished. When the truant officer finally got around to checking on your lack of attendance, he assumed you’d moved because the home you shared with your grandmother was empty.”
Isleen’s heart beat as swiftly as sparrow’s wings.
“I know that you were starved, beaten, and drained of blood. I know that you’ve been enduring that for the past eight years.”
Her insides shook, the sensation traveling outward on waves of fear until her entire body trembled. Deep in the grave of memories, Isleen felt the soil shift, felt for the second time today the memories trying to rise up. No. She was stronger than them. She would not let them take her over.
“Is…is Queen dead?” Isleen’s voice shook when she said the name.
“Yes.”
“Then none of it matters. It’s over. It’s done with. She can’t hurt me or Gran anymore.” The grave dirt stilled.
“Hey.” Kent’s tone was soft. The kind of tone a person used on a wounded animal. “I have to follow every lead. I have to make certain that you really are safe. That everything you’ve been through really is over. But, if you’re not ready to talk about it today, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I intend never to talk about it.” She held his gaze, hoping he could see the promise in her eyes.
“Isleen, I’ve been doing this job for a while now. I have experience dealing with people like you. People who’ve experienced the worst life has to offer and survived. So I can tell you, holding it all inside is dangerous. It’s a wound, and when you don’t talk about it, it becomes infected. If not treated, the infection takes over and the nice life you want to build gets poisoned.”
