Killing Secrets

by Docter, K. L

  In the next moment, she spotted the leather horsewhip resting in the bottom of the box where it had been hidden from view beneath the dress. There were rust-colored stains streaked across the top eight inches of the otherwise pristine buff leather that encased the whip.

  Blood. Her blood.

  The shaking in her hands raced up her arms. She fought to push down the bile climbing her throat. Losing the battle, she dropped the silk dress into a pile on the floor, turned and raced out of the kitchen down the hall to the bathroom. She barely made it. Her knees hit the cold, porcelain tile seconds before she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

  Chapter Ten

  Immobilized by Rachel’s sudden disappearance from the kitchen, Patrick stared at the empty doorway she’d run through. “What…?”

  The sounds of vomiting coming from down the hall kicked his brain into high gear. Why hadn’t he asked for the details of Rachel’s “troubles”? Oh, yeah, he’d become a heartless ass and hadn’t wanted to know. But, looking down at the horsewhip curled innocently at the bottom of the delivery box, remembering the brutal look in Greg Bishop’s icy blue eyes, he did know. He cursed.

  Stalking across the kitchen after Rachel, he looked over his shoulder at Jane. “Jane, don’t touch anything,” he said. “Call the precinct. Tell them to get a car here. Now!”

  Leaving his office manager to it, Patrick raced down the hallway toward the bathroom where he could still hear Rachel alternately vomiting and groaning. The sight that met his eyes when he stopped in the doorway made him curse.

  Rachel knelt on the floor with both hands braced on the toilet seat and retched into the bowl. She swayed despite her efforts to hold position.

  Patrick didn’t think before he took action. Kneeling at her back, he did what his mother always did when he was sick as a kid and feeling weak with the flu. He placed his right hand across Rachel’s clammy forehead to support her head, his left to the back of her T-shirt where he rubbed upward from the base of her spine to her neck.

  At his first touch, she shied away with a startled cry, but another spasm ripped at her stomach and distracted her from what he was doing. She began to settle as he held her in place and continued to rub her back. Up. Down. Up. Down. She leaned into the third upward stroke.

  When her T-shirt rode up with her position change, exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of her jeans, he remembered how much better his mother’s warm hand felt on his naked back. He dipped his hand under the material to Rachel’s silky skin before he realized his mistake.

  For a moment, he hesitated, aware of the dangerous territory he’d promised himself he wouldn’t breach. He’d acknowledged only this morning that his attraction to Rachel was unreasonable. He was supposed to turn her and little Amanda over to Jack soon, let a police officer take care of them so he could return to his side of the hedge. So he could put his libido back into the deep freeze.

  That intent was fading under the heat of her skin burning into his palm, his protective instincts kicking in and pushing everything else aside. Despite the sour smell of vomit that permeated the bathroom, the delicate scent of lilacs rose from Rachel slim curves and curled around his senses to remind him she was a woman. A woman in trouble. His calloused hand, unbearably sensitive on the small of her back above her form-fitting jeans, felt both intrusive and possessive.

  What he was doing was helping her though. She stopped vomiting, her stomach emptied, although a dry heave wracked her. Once. Twice. She swayed, clearly weakened.

  You’re already committed to helping her. You can’t stop.

  His jaw tight, he slowly inched his fingers up her spine. Two inches. His massage stopped when Rachel’s silky smooth skin gave way to a raised line of roughness. Another fraction upward felt smooth. Beyond that, he bumped over another, thicker line. Then another. A sick feeling slammed into his gut when he realized what lay beneath his hand.

  Falling back on his heels, he yanked the T-shirt up so he could look at Rachel’s back above her jeans. Every place he’d touched rough skin was a raised, puckered scar. There were at least ten of them, some running horizontally across her back, some crisscrossed, some wrapped around her waist and hip to what he suspected were more scars on her belly. They were pink, shiny, not the white color of old scars.

  Anger swelled, his suspicions confirmed. Bishop might not have knocked Rachel down the other day, but it looked like she’d been beaten fairly recently. With the horsewhip that sat in the box on the kitchen counter? “I should have killed him when I had the chance,” he muttered, barely able to speak around his rage at what her ex had done to her.

  Rachel must have heard the anger in his low voice or felt his fingers tighten on her T-shirt because she looked over her shoulder, cried out, and yanked her shirt down. “Don’t!” she sputtered, trying to scoot away.

  Patrick looked into her wild eyes and cursed his stupidity, but he refused to let her go. He couldn’t. He lowered the toilet seat and flushed it, gathered her into his arms, stood up and sat back down on the closed lid with her on his lap. “Shh, Rach,” he said, pushing his voice into a reassuring calm he did not feel.

  With her nestled close, he could feel tremors tear at her slim frame testifying to the fragility of her composure. She was so close to completely unraveling, it was all he could do not to set her down, find Bishop, and rip his head off. Trying to keep his voice low and non-threatening almost took more control than he had. “You’re safe, honey. I won’t let him hurt you. He can’t hurt you again. It’s okay.”

  Rachel looked up at him with stricken, brown eyes. “I-I’m sorry! I can’t—oh, dear God, he—” She burst into tears.

  A hard knot developed in Patrick’s chest right under the spot where her tears soaked his work shirt. He held her closer with each shudder, with each sob, although he told himself he should pull away. He wanted to regain his distance, but his ability to do that crumbled the moment he touched Rachel in his parents’ back yard yesterday and stood toe-to-toe with her ex-husband. Had it only been yesterday? He hadn’t been able to walk away then. He wasn’t walking away from her now.

  “Rachel,” he whispered into her hair, his hand tucked protectively around the back of her neck. “Stop, honey. It’ll be okay.”

  All he had to do was figure out how.

  ~~~

  When Rachel woke up in the dark bedroom that she’d been using since her arrival in Denver, she peered at the digital clock sitting on the dresser. Two o’clock. She’d only meant to sleep until midnight, just long enough to gather her strength before she ran again.

  This time, she had to do it alone. Katy could no longer help her. Evelyn and Ross Thorne meant well when they’d offered her a place to hide, but she was no longer hidden. She couldn’t jeopardize them or their family any longer. She couldn’t bear the thought of Greg taking out his anger on Patrick. It was as unbearable as thinking about her ex-husband getting his hands on Amanda.

  She had to break ties with everything and everyone she knew to keep her daughter safe. She couldn’t allow anyone to talk her out of bolting like the frightened rabbit she was or she didn’t stand a chance of escaping Greg before he followed up on the threat he’d made with the contents of the box delivered before dinner. The police officers that showed up in response to Jane’s phone call had removed the box and contents from the house, taking it with them to the station so they could contact the delivery service and the driver in the hope of tracking it back to Greg.

  The package removal didn’t eradicate the threat from Rachel’s mind.

  Message received. Loud and clear.

  Put on the clothing I picked for you when I dressed you to suit my desires. Relinquish control of yourself and don the persona that serves my desires, or suffer the consequences. “’Til death, darlin’. You’d better get it because, next time, it’ll be your precious brat. And, next time…I…won’t…stop.”

  Looking down at the little girl she loved more than life itself, snuggled
into her side, Rachel watched her sleep. Amanda’s eyelids twitched in a dream. Her face twisted with distress. She whimpered, as she’d often done in the six months since they fled San Francisco and began sleeping together. Rachel swept baby-fine hair off Amanda’s face, her fingers tracing lightly over her tender skin from temple to jaw. Over and over. Until Amanda settled into a deeper sleep again with a long sigh.

  Rachel continued the caress, as much to soothe her child as herself. She hated feeling so helpless. Amanda used to sleep like the dead, hardly moving, never waking once she curled up in her new, big girl’s bed with puppies painted all over the headboard. She’d been a bright-eyed, loving four-year-old whose worst nightmare was a scraped knee.

  Until the night Rachel limped out of her bedroom six months ago.

  Her little girl’s peaceful dreams had been replaced by nightmares. Nightmares she couldn’t share with her mama since she’d stopped talking. There was little doubt she’d heard everything her father said and did that night. Rachel wished she knew whether Greg said something to Amanda before leaving them alone in the house in a vain attempt to escape the FBI warrant. She’d never know until the doctors could help Amanda work through her trauma.

  They’d barely started before Greg’s release from jail. Emotional danger had been replaced with physical danger, and she didn’t have a clue how to protect her child from either. Her heart skipped at the thought of what Greg might do to his daughter if Rachel didn’t give in to his threats.

  She pushed the worries to the back of her mind before they could take hold, and inhaled deeply, imprinting Amanda’s scent on her senses, a mix of little girl, the lilac talcum powder she shared with her mother after each bath, and a hint of something new but somehow reassuring.

  It was a scent she knew. Patrick. Amanda smelled like Patrick.

  He’d given the four-year-old one of his T-shirts to sleep in when they’d had a sleepover while Rachel was in the hospital. She didn’t realize the child had dragged the shirt home with her until after Amanda took her bath. The T-shirt was over her head and swamping her little body with material before Rachel saw it and her daughter refused to take it off, her head shaking stubbornly when her mama tried to reason with her.

  With the trauma of the past twenty-four hours, Rachel decided it wasn’t worth fighting over. It wasn’t surprising Amanda found comfort in Patrick’s scent. Her mama certainly did.

  Not that Rachel needed the illusion of comfort now. That’s all it was. Illusion. What she needed was strength. Strength to pack the rental car, to hit the road again. Strength to go it alone. She’d become too dependent living with Katy. She’d not been confident enough to walk away from the support Katy and her friends, Evelyn and Ross, had offered her. She’d been too scared to strike out on her own last week. Tonight, she had no choice.

  Another glance at the dresser and the red numbers of the clock blurred. Sharp pain traveled from the back of her head in both directions. She was tempted to close her eyes again, give in to the sweet oblivion of sleep, but it would only delay the inevitable. And, as her father used to tell her every time she dug in her heels about something she didn’t want to do, it was time to make a decision. Fish or cut bait, little chickadee. You can’t do both.

  With a sigh, she erased her father’s unwelcome voice from her mind and gingerly eased off the bed. There were pain pills that would clear her head in her purse downstairs, but putting the city lights of Denver in her rearview mirror was all she could concentrate on. She’d take some pills after they put a couple hundred miles behind them. Maybe.

  Assured Amanda was sleeping peacefully Rachel eased the curtains open a few inches to allow moonlight into the bedroom. Picking up the oversized backpack she’d found in the closet earlier, she began transferring items from their suitcases into the bag. An extra set of clothes for both of them. Socks and underwear. Toothbrushes.

  Amanda would miss her doll, but Rachel was not sneaking next door to Patrick’s house to get it. It was one reminder of her ex-husband she wouldn’t be sorry to see gone forever. She’d buy another one for Amanda. Although the way she clutched Suze’s doll in her sleep, maybe that wouldn’t be necessary. Their temporary trade could just become permanent. Suze would be happy to keep Becca.

  Culling their meager belongings proved difficult because she’d arrived in Denver with only the bare necessities and items she couldn’t live without…like her mother’s monogrammed silver mirror, brush and comb set. But, Patrick had keyed in the security panel before they’d gone upstairs to bed so she couldn’t just throw their suitcases out of one of the bedroom windows without tripping the alarm. A backpack made more sense, especially when she’d also be carrying a sleeping child.

  She’d slept in a cotton tee and loose-fitting shorts. So, once she’d tied tennis shoes on her bare feet, she settled the backpack on her back and picked up Amanda in her arms, her fluffy blanket tucked around her. Rachel’s head swam, but she waited until the dizziness passed, then left the bedroom. She made her way down the stairs sidestepping the two that squeaked, not stopping until she reached the archway on the right that led into the living room. She peered into the room at the dark lump on the couch that delineated Patrick’s body where he slept. As he’d promised he would.

  It was that promise, more than exhaustion, that had allowed her to fall asleep earlier. For the first time in years she’d felt able to relinquish her anxiety, if only for a few hours to rest up. Once she hit the road, it might be days before she’d feel safe enough to stop and sleep.

  Staring at Patrick’s unmoving form, she fought her impulse to go to him and ask him to hold her like he had in the bathroom after Greg’s package was delivered. She’d never felt as safe, as secure, as she had in those minutes she’d cried in his arms. Listening to his deep voice promise her that everything would be all right, she’d desperately wanted to believe him. She’d soaked up his words and the feeling of security like she was a parched prairie flower and he was the long-awaited rain.

  She should be appalled at how easily he’d walked past defenses she’d bolstered for years. She hardly knew the man!

  The reminder she’d met Patrick less than forty-eight hours ago kicked her self-protective instincts into high gear and forced her to turn her back to the living room. Walking across the entry, she silently passed through the swinging door into the unlit kitchen. Just inside, she paused to pick out the outlines of the central island and bar stools that bisected the large room between her and the breakfast alcove on the other side. A sliver of moonlight lit the table through the drawn curtains revealing her purse right where she remembered leaving it.

  Afraid the lights would hurt her eyes and make her headache worse, not to mention awaken Patrick in the other room, she didn’t bother to turn them on. She grabbed her purse off the table and walked toward the kitchen door, where she paused to listen to the Victorian house creak and groan, settling sounds she’d grown used to the past few days. Nothing stirred.

  Still, her hand didn’t reach for the glowing security keypad. Once she punched in the sequence of numbers Patrick taught her to turn off the system, once she walked out the door, she would be vulnerable. But, more than that, she’d be alone again.

  She was so tired of being alone! Which is how you got into the current mess you’re in, little chickadee.

  Her father’s voice in her head hurt her heart worse than anything Greg ever did to her. She would have thought ten years would have allowed the painful memories to fade. They’d only gained intensity over time. She’d been thinking about her dad a lot lately. She longed to hear his gruff voice tickling her ear as she laid her head on his strong chest. She still dreamed of feeling his arms close around her shoulders, squeezing until she laughingly protested.

  She’d felt loved back then. Childhood memories. Why didn’t she remember the arguments they’d had when she was in high school? His angry, dismissive words when they’d argued that awful day her senior year when he walked out of her life forever?
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  Why are you standing here wasting time wandering down memory lane when you need to get out of Dodge?

  The thought forced her to key in the numbers with trembling fingers. The beep that told her the security system had disengaged sounded too loud in the nighttime quiet. Praying the sound hadn’t reached the living room, she opened the door, turned the lock on the knob to keep Patrick safe, and hurried out into the night with Amanda.

  Chapter Eleven

  Patrick woke to the beep from the kitchen alarm, his Glock already grasped in his right hand. His adrenaline pumped him to full alert. He was off the couch like a shot and halfway across the entry before he heard the snick of the door closing. Had someone come in, or gone out?

  His eyes already adjusted to the darkness, he eased to the kitchen entrance. Frowning at the closed swinging door, he pushed it open just enough to peek his head around it, low and tight. He scanned the room. No one. A moment later, a bulky shadow backlit by moonlight passed across the kitchen window heading toward the back of the house.

  Grateful he’d fallen asleep in his jeans and boots, he didn’t hesitate to cross the room to the door. Looking down on the knob locked from the inside, he cursed. Burglars and felonious exes didn’t lock up behind themselves. And—he sniffed the air—they didn’t smell like lilacs. Rachel had bolted. Jack warned him she might. Why hadn’t he listened?

  Gun in hand, he left the house on Rachel’s heels, keyed in the security system so no one could sneak in while he went after her. It was considerably brighter outside with the full moon overhead so he traversed the length of the side yard toward the back of the property quickly. He stuck to the shadows until he entered the dark maw between his garage and his mom’s hulking greenhouse behind which he knew Rachel had hidden her rental car.